23.1 S649d
Keep Your Card in This Pocket
Books will be issued only on presentation of proper
library cards.
Unless labeled otherwise, books may be retained
for two weeks. Borrowers finding books marked, de
faced or mutilated are expected to report same at
library desk; otherwise the last borrower will be held
responsible for all imperfections discovered.
The card holder is responsible for all books drawn
on this card.
Penalty for over-due books 2c a day plus cost of
notices.
Lost cards and change of residence must be re
ported promptly.
Public Library
Kansas City, Mo.
TENSION ENVELOPE CORP.
JUNJ? tf *.
if l^
11 '-l"
, ' ^ 1 ,'
jt; 6
WAV 5'
Photo by Gene Lester
Ira Smith with photographs of some of the presidents under whom he served.
THE STORY OF
FIFTY YEARS
IN THE WHITE HOCSK
MAIL ROOM
By IRA R. T. SMITH with JOE ALEX MORRIS
JULIAN MESSNER INC. NKW YORK
PUBLISHED BY JULIAN MESSNEF, INC.
8 WEST 40TH STREET, NEW YORK 18
COPYRIGHT 1949
BY IRA R. T. SMITH
[An abbreviated version of this book
was serialized in The Saturday Eve
ning Post under the title of My
Fifty Years In The White House.]
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To MY efficient and loyal staff of assistants
who helped me to whatever success I
achieved in the office of Chief of Mails.
SCT 5 1949
"Dear Mr. President . . ?'
FOREWORD
TT WANT TO GET A WORD IN HERE BEFORE YOU START ON THIS
* book. For fifty-one years and three months I worked at
the White House and thus I had a chance to see from that
vantage point the development of our nation for about one-
third of its actual history. It was a grand experience.
But I am not a historian, and I want to make one thing
clear: This book is not a historical document about the
White House and its occupants. If it is the history of great
events that you're looking for, you'd save yourself a lot of
effort by going fishing instead of reading this. You might
have more fun, too.
My purpose in writing this book is to put down, while I still
remember, some of my impressions of and reactions to events
and people associated with the White House during the first
half of the twentieth century. My connection with great
events was too fragmentary to be of historical value. The
history I will leave to the Jim Farleys, the Harold Ickeses and
others whose advice was solicited by the Presidents.
I guess I always had my own ideas on how to run the
Government, but since I wasn't asked for advice, I didn't
give any. Good thing, too, because I was sure wrong a lot of
times.
Ira R. T. Smith
March, 1949
Santa Barbara, California
CHAPTER ONE
TT SPENT FIFTY YEABS IN THE WHITE HOUSE READING THE
- - President's mail, and let me tell you right now that even
after youVe opened a million letters addressed to somebody
else you can still be curious about what's inside the next
sealed envelope.
It's human nature, I suppose, to wonder what is in the
other fellow's mail, especially if the other fellow happens to
be the President of the United States. I have as much curios
ity as the next one, but opening the White House mail just
happened to be my job. It started out almost by chance as a
part of the day's work back in the McKinley administration,
but it grew into a career that meant a lot of excitement, some
fun, and many headaches during the next half century.
You might as well know at the beginning that whenever
you or many thousands of your fellow Americans sat down
and wrote a friendly or an indignant or a worried letter to
your President, it came to me instead of him. I or my assist
ants opened it, read it, and directed it toward either a suitable
answer or the dark recesses of a filing cabinet. And from the
days of" President McKinley to the fourth year of President
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
Truman's administration, I opened a lot of letters that you
wouldn't believe unless you saw them.
I guess that it is a natural result of our system of govern
ment that every citizen as well as quite a few who aren't
citizens feels perfectly free to write to the President about
his troubles or about his ideas of how the administration
ought to be run. At least a great many do write such letters,
and a few examples of what comes in the White House mail
in addition to routine communications may give some idea
of the problems presented.
A letter from a war veteran who wants help in finding a trunk
that has been lost somewhere between Chicago and California.
We found it
A letter from a war widow seeking a pension and enclosing a
sample of the ashes of her husband to prove he is dead. A clerk
inadvertently opened it in front of an electric fan, and the evi
dence vanished.
A letter from a man who had written to the President on a
political question, enclosing a stamp for reply, and had received
his answer in a franked envelope. He angrily demands return
of his stamp and that the President restore to the Government
thousands of dollars which, he feels certain, have been "filched"
in this manner.
A letter from a man in Iowa who for twenty-five years wrote
regularly to the President demanding that his new method of
scoring baseball games be universally adopted.
A letter, with money enclosed, requesting the President to grant
a divorce.
Letters addressed to "The Onuble President/' "The Great
Promisor," "Calvin Coolidge-urgent-hasten-fly," "Too deer
President," "Frankie Rassie Velt," "His Majesty of USA, Comrade
and Buddy," "Pft-Phooy~Pres. Roosevelt," or "Mr. Presadene
FraHine Rodserveet if name spells wrong, please excuse," Many
-2-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
letters had no address other than a drawing of the President, and
some were envelopes on which was written something like "May
Jesus place this letter in the President's hands personally.**
The gifts coming to the President covered an incredible
range. A coyote sent to Teddy Roosevelt terrorized the
White House offices when it escaped from its crate, but it
turned out to be playful as a puppy. Other gifts that stick in
my memory included two Nubian lions from Ethiopia, a large
Alaskan eagle, alive and in such a combative mood that he
struck at everybody who approached his cage; numerous
horned toads; a Puerto Rican cow and calf for "the White
House dairy'*; a grain of rice with selections from the Koran
written on it, which was lost when the package was opened
and never recovered.
These, of course, are merely samples of the many thou
sands of things that come in the President's mail, but they
give some idea of the tremendous problem the post office, as
well as freight and express carriage, lays on the White House
doorstep every day. It is both a heart-rending and an encour
aging problem, because it presents a cross-section view of
what is happening in our country, of how the people feel
about things in general, and of their affection for or bitter
ness toward the Chief Executive. Almost every President
has been deeply moved in times of great stress by the under
standing and sympathetic letters that come from the little
people, especially when they tell him of their personal
problems.
Very few of them stop to think that the President cannot
read even a small percentage of these letters if he intends to
"Dear Mr. President . . .
devote ai^y of his time to the business of running the Govern
ment. They merely write the letters, put them in envelopes
addressed to the White House, and drop them in the mailbox
with implicit faith in the ability of the United States Post
Office to deliver them to the man in whom they put their
trust I think I ought to say that, over the years, that trust
has been fulfilled pretty wellnot, of course, by the Presi
dent himself, except in comparatively few cases, but as a
result of the system set up to handle the White House mail
as efficiently and as humanly as possible.
This system is not as involved as it might seem to the out
sider, although in recent years it has required a large staff
in the White House mail room itself. Basically, however, it
is a distribution system designed to forward the letters to the
government departments or bureaus that are especially
equipped to handle each category. In other words, most
people write to the President about problems that should be
handled by the Department of Agriculture or the Bureau of
Standards or the Patent Office or some similar branch of the
Government. The work of the mail-room staff involves re
cording the receipt of such letters and forwarding them to
the proper department for answers.
But in a place like the White House this job is a great deal
more than mere routine, because nobody ever knows when
a trucHoad of mail dumped on the doorstep will contain
highly explosive matter either a political bomb that must
be handled with special care and an eye to the next election,
or an actual bomb that must be turned over to the Secret
Service. Either kind can cause a lot of trouble.
"Dear Mr. President . . /'
The political explosive, of course, is the most frequent, and
I always had to keep my mind, and the minds of my staff,
attuned to the latest ripples and currents of political develop
ments in order to avoid missing the implications of what
might look like an unimportant or routine letter but actually
could turn out to be filled with political dynamite. It wasn't
so difficult to know where to send letters for the proper
answers as it was to decide which letters should be kept
usually for political purposes at the White House for the
personal attention of the President or his secretaries.
A mistake in connection with such letters might mean an
affront to an important political personage, and a President
can afford very few affronts to important politicians if he
intends to keep on being President. I'll explain later how an
unfortunate incident that was really nobody's fault had
political repercussions all over the country during the early
nineteen-thirties.
I had to make the decisions, and that is one reason why
I always felt that the President of the United States and I
were leading double lives. We had to if we were going to last
very long in our White House jobs. During working hours, I
put myself in the President's shoes and saw that every letter
he received was sent to the right place for an answer. I made
some mistakes, I suppose, but so did most of our Presidents,
and I outlasted eight of them at the game. Maybe that was
largely due to the fact that I didn't have to play the game all
the time. In my off hours, I could go to the races or take my
fishing boat down the Potomac or play a little poker, and be
myself.
"Dear Mr. President . . "
It was a lot tougher on the President He had to have two
distinct personalities one for the public and one that was
seen only when he relaxed with close personal friends or
associates inside the walls of the White House. Sometimes
that was quite a strain on everybody. Surprising sometimes,
too.
There was Teddy Roosevelt, for instance. Mr. Roosevelt
was a dominating, razzle-dazzle leader in public life, but he
became as meek as a lamb when he joined his uninhibited
family circle after a hard day of trust-busting at the office.
Woodrow Wilson was an incomparable logician, and a
student of such broad vision that he often stumbled over the
little facts of practical politics, but in private he liked to
crouch at his old-fashioned typewriter and transcribe his own
shorthand notes as if he were a $2400-a-year clerk.
Calvin Coolidge appeared to the voters as a shrewd, un
ruffled New Englander who kept government waste down and
business profits up, but at home he rambled restlessly from
cellar to attic fussing with petty details, and sometimes
seething with suppressed irritability when he found some
thing wrong.
Franklin D. Roosevelt in private was perhaps more like
his public self than any other President I knew, because he
never failed to present himself as the leading actor on what
ever stage was available at the moment. He could make a
grand gesture for the most lowly typist with as much en
thusiasm as he gave to any historic occasion.
But of the nine Presidents under whom I served, from
McKinley to Truman, the most puzzling and in some ways
"Dear Mr. President . . .*
the most disliked during his term was William Howard Taft
This was not due to any lack of charm or intelligence on the
part of Mr. Taft To the public he was a fat, good-natured,
smiling man whose administration was not especially good
and not especially bad. But inside the White House he was
unhappy; his feet hurt, he overate, and he often fell asleep
and snored at his desk. I mention his administration in
particular, however, because it was a turning point for the
White House office staff.
Not long ago I was down on the bay in my boat one sunny
afternoon when the fish were too lazy to bite and I was too
lazy to care. I sat there with my hands holding a rod and my
feet propped up on an icebox that Calvin Coolidge gave me,
and I got to thinking back over what had happened in the
White House in the last half century.
I thought: Well, there was a time when life was pretty
simple even for the President. There were only a dozen of
us on the White House staff at the turn of the century, and
we knew each other's good and bad points. If we needed help
or advice we could go to the President's secretary or to the
President himself. We all felt we were part of one big
family. Then in the days of Mr. Taft aU that began to change.
The change was due only in part to Mr. Taft, although the
turning point came, as I will explain later, when his political
advisers forced on him the first efficiency expert I had ever
seen within shooting range. I was gun-shy for years after that
experience.
But the real reason was that the business of the Presidency
was growing up, and during World War I the staff expanded
"Dear Mr. President . , ." ,
at a rapid rate. To the horror of us old-timers, even women
came to work in the executive offices, and we had to quit
messing around the locker room in our undershirts and give
up our occasional dice and card games in the basement.
In the succeeding administrations our operations became so
extended and so complex that the feeling of being "in the
family" was never recaptured, except perhaps in a measure
under Mr. Coolidge. Our jobs gained added excitement and
interest, but by the nineteen-twenties we had become part of
a big-scale executive operation.
It was President Hoover, with his engineering background,
who brought the evolution to a scientific peak. He virtually
engineered us into exile with the introduction of the multiple-
secretary system that isolated him from White House per
sonnel A lot of people thought it was so efficient that it also
isolated Mr. Hoover from the trend of public opinion, but
that was not entirely true.
It remained for Franklin Roosevelt to complete the evolu
tion by employing and expanding this system so skillfully
that he created the illusion of his personal touch on every
thing connected with the White House.
Well, I was sitting there in my boat thinking about the
different people who had lived iri the White House and the
vast changes that had come about in handling the mail, as
well as in everything else, since I first went to work there in
1897. 1 thought that if I ever wrote about it I would have a
hard time explaining some of the things that happened during
those years. It wouldn't be easy, either, to explain to young
people in this technological age how we got our work done
-8-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
when I was a young clerk handling President McKinley's mail
and doing odd jobs around an office that I remember for its
big ledgers with precise, handwritten entries, its cumbersome
typewriters., and its clicking telegraph key.
It would be difficult, I thought, to make plain the attitude
of the White House staff toward certain famous men and
women and children how we felt, for instance, when an
exasperated clerk soundly spanked the naughty daughter of
a President without knowing that her father was watching
grimly from the doorway.
But I felt that the most difficult thing of all would be to
explain how I managed to hang onto my job through almost
thirteen administrations. That was no simple task in itself
when you realize that I stayed put while six Republican and
three Democratic Presidents moved in and out of the old
mansion on Pennsylvania Avenue. I don't believe there is
anybody else alive today who has held a comparable govern
ment post for so many years, who saw so many famous men
and women come and go.
Let me be quick to say that my staying power should be
attributed to peculiar circumstances as much as to any un
usual talents of mine for the job that, in later years, was
officially described as Chief of Mails. As Joe Louis once said
when asked how he had managed to remain heavyweight
champion for so long, "I was lucky." Yes, I was lucky, but
I wasn't afraid of long hours when there was extra work to be
done, and I had something else that seldom seems to be
exactly harmful to a career in Washington friends.
Let's be frank about it I got my job in the first place
"Dear Mr. President . , *
through political pull. In fact, there was plenty of political
influence in my behalf at the White House but actually no
specific job for me when my uncle persuaded President Mc-
Kinley to hire me, and sometimes I had to scramble around
to find enough work to keep them from catching on and
sending me back to Ohio.
I don't feel that I was terribly ambitious. Like William
Howard Taft, my sin was "an indisposition to labor as hard
as I should/' In defiance of American tradition, I never had
any desire to be President, and seeing a few Presidents at
close range merely confirmed my attitude. I just wanted to
handle the White House mail.
I also wanted occasionally to see a good baseball game, to
invest a few dollars in a crap game in the White House
basement, and to find time to get a small bet down on the
fifth race at Pimlico when the ponies were running. There's
no reason to put that sentence in the past tense; that's what
I still want. These inclinations, however, were often no help
to me in my job, if I may state the circumstances in a re
strained manner. In the early days I was the object of some
severe lectures by the executive clerk. There were several
of us in minor jobs who used to take advantage of dull after
noons to go down to the basement locker room, where it
was dusty and quiet, spread out a blanket, and roll dice.
When executive clerk Rudolph Forster found us there he
usually gave me the most severe dressing-down. One day,
feeling that this was rank discrimination, I asked him why he
always directed his sharpest remarks at me.
"Well," he replied, giving me a long stare, "whenever this
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
happens some of the boys may be here one time but not the
next. You're here every time."
I had to admit that he was probably correct, but I didn't
feel that it should really be held against me, because when
there was work to be done I often kept on the job until mid
night or later and regularly I worked all day Sunday.
There were a number of times, however, when my job was
in jeopardy. One presidential secretary was fully determined
to fire me, but changed his mind for a variety of reasons I
will explain later. One President's wife wanted to punish the
less sedate members of the staff, which naturally included
me, for playing baseball on the lawn. And one President took
office with the idea in mind thatbecause of a pre-election
incident that was not my faultI could be dispensed with.
He was persuaded to change his mind later, and I worked for
him longer than for any other President Twelve years,
in fact
Actually, every time a new administration came in there
was a period of political uncertainty that affected the entire
staff, because new presidential secretaries are likely to want
new personnel all down the line. And there are always politi
cal debts to be paid off. A large number of letters would
come to each new President from political job-hunters who
wanted to take my place as "postmaster" at the White House,
These presumably deserving party workers seemed to go on
the theory that there would be a new man in my job just as,
in the olden times, the village post office got a new boss every
time a national election brought a change in the party in
power. Most such job-hunters could think of nothing easier
-11-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
that sorting a few letters for the presidential family and then
sitting with feet on desk until the next mail came in.
It might have worked out that way, but it didn't. In the
first place, there wasn't much time to loaf between truckloads
of mail. I liked to get my feet up on the desk occasionally, but
many times we worked until long after midnight, on Sun
days, and on holidays trying to catch up with a flood of let
ters and packages. I figure that I have about seven years of
overtime pay coming to me for all of my extra-hours work,
but I never counted on getting it.
When I first went to work at the White House, President
McKinley was getting an average of perhaps 100 letters a
day, and there were frequent complaints that something
would have to be done about such an avalanche of mail. As I
grew familiar with the job, the mail grew by leaps and
bounds. In President Hoover's time, the mail averaged about
800 a day, and during the New Deal it averaged about
8000 a day, with peak days on which we would go down
under a count of 150,000 letters and parcels. We ceased to
count the letters; we just lined them up and measured the
length of each row. The mere physical handling of the mail
required a staff that grew from one man myself to twenty-
two regularly employed persons and in emergencies to
seventy persons, including such volunteer helpers as Mrs.
James Roosevelt, the President's daughter-in-law. She could
go through a bag of mail with the best of them, and often
did.
Fortunately, from my viewpoint, the mail always piled
up in terrifying fashion with the advent of each new Presi-
-12-
"Dear Mr. President . , "
dent. When the new President and his secretary got a glimpse
of the thousands of letters arriving daily or stacked up await
ing an answer, they were likely to throw up their hands in
helpless horror. Even if they had someone in mind for my
job they were likely to shrug and say: "Well, let Ira Smith
do it, at least for a while. He knows how/'
So I would go ahead until they could "get somebody else/'
or until the backlog of letters had been cleared up, which
usually took about six months. By that time I had either been
accepted or something had happened to strengthen my posi
tion. When Woodrow Wilson came in, for instance, he was
the first Democrat in the White House since my appointment,
and I didn't feel particularly secure. They told me to go
ahead, however, with stacks of mail that had been forwarded
from his home and from the Democratic National Commit
tee. It didn't hurt my standing when I found, in unopened
letters containing campaign contributions, $65,000 that the
Democrats didn't even know they had.
A lot of other unexpected things have been found in the
White House mail in the last fifty years, including a few dis
guised but highly dangerous packages of explosives. None of
the dangerous mail ever got close to the President and, with
modern methods now in use, none of it ever will. But in a
job like mine the possibility that you might come across some
thing was always in the back of your mind, along with a huge
mass of miscellaneous data concerning ways to recognize the
mail from members of the President's family, the handwriting
of important correspondents, the color of the envelopes used
by personal friends, and odd postmarks that meant letters
-13-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
in which the Chief Executive would be personally inter
ested.
After a while, a man handling mail of this nature develops
a sort of sixth sense that makes it possible for him to work
with great speed. I could tell almost by looking at them some
thing about the contents of most of the letters and packages
that came into the White House mail room. Especially if they
were crank letters or dangerous packages.
In the old days, when we lacked any sort of scientific
apparatus for examining the mail, it was up to me to guess
whether a package was dangerous, unless it happened to be
spotted by the post-office clerks before it was delivered to the
White House. Since it was my neck that was at stake, I
became accustomed to taking a good look at all packages
before opening them or even before handling them. This
became second nature with me, and the danger signs would
automatically register in my mind as I looked over the day's
deliveries. The lack of a return address was one thing I noted
immediately, because that became a familiar clue to the
crank letter or the dangerous package. Just as suspicious was
a return address such as "John Brown, Podunk, Ohio/' unless
we happened to know such a person, because a crank is not
likely to have much imagination in such matters.
If a package was particularly heavy for its size, it was
likely to be laid aside for later examination and of course if
it ticked, I frequently dumped it into a bucket of oil before
opening it. I was always a reasonably cautious man, and that
may help account for the lack of explosions around the White
House mail room in my time there. I was fortunate, as well,
-14-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
because on a couple o occasions there were explosions of
White House mail while it was still in the hands of the
General Post Office.
Over the years we worked out methods of handling all
mail, but it was always interesting to study the methods of cor
respondents who sought to avoid our precautions. I remember
one envelope addressed to the President with the notation:
"Very personal, if that means anything to a long-nosed secre
tary/' And another that said: "Anyone opening this letter
other than the President will be subject to a lawsuit." Some
times the writers of letters that failed to reach the President
would become so incensed that they would travel many miles
to make a personal visit to the White House. Usually I had
to try to pacify them. Some of them went away happy, but
sometimes I needed police help to get rid of them or to
prevent violence.
Other habitual correspondents resorted to all kinds of
tricks, such as throwing letters into the President's auto
mobile as he drove along the street, or enclosing a bribe in a
letter with a plea to get it to the President. Occasionally ex
pensive gifts accompanied the letters for the same purpose.
Others tried to hand letters to the President's wife at public
affairs, or to deliver them by hand to the front door of the
White House. All of them ended up in the same place the
mail room.
And having reached the mail room, they became, of course,
my responsibility. Sometimes it was a responsibility that
couldn't be discharged to suit everybody, and I suppose I
occasionally ruffled the feelings of important persons. Some-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
times it took a bit of scheming and a bit of political puU to
keep things going around the office, and not infrequently it
was tough going, at that Well, that was all right with me. As
far back as I can remember to my boyhood in the California
mountains IVe had to be reasonably fast on my feet to get
along. IVe had to be pretty tough sometimes, too.
CHAPTER TWO
VE SAID THAT I GOT MY JOB THROUGH POLITICAL FULL, SO I
-*- think I'd better explain about my Uncle John. He was
my pull.
Uncle John was John N. Taylor, my mother's brother, and
a man who had made his way up to become president of the
huge Knowles, Taylor and Knowles potteries in East Liver
pool, Ohio. His way may have been made a little less rugged
when he married the boss's daughter, but that was in the best
American tradition, and anyway my point is that he got to the
top. He was a pillar of rock-ribbed Republicanism in the
state, and that meant that he was on close terms with such
fabulous characters as Mark Hanna, and of course William
McKinley.
My uncle John made a big thing out of china plates and
cups and saucers when the East Liverpool potteries were
among the largest in the world, and his campaign contribu
tions helped do big things for the Grand Old Party in Ohio,
too. In fact, at one time he had a hand in a bit of financial
aid to Mr. McKinley when times were tough, and he was
"Dear Mr. President . . "
naturally gratified when there came a day on which Mr.
McKinley, pushed somewhat by Mark Hanna, moved into
the White House.
These developments were important to me, too, because
Uncle John had more or less looked after me from the time I
was in my early 'teens. My father was William J. Smith, born
on a farm near Midway, Pennsylvania. My grandfather Smith
had made a good thing of several farms that he owned, and
he gave one of them to each of his sons. Father took his, but
he didn't want it. He wanted to be a preacher, and he was
entranced by the famous evangelists of the day, including
Moody and Sankey. He went to Pittsburgh and studied under
a famous Presbyterian minister, Dr. Sylvester Scoville, and
later he traveled the evangelistic trail. He never went to a
theological seminary, but he became an ordained minister.
He also met and married an Irish girl named Elizabeth
Taylor.
My parents lived on the farm for a couple of years, and I
was born there in 1875, and named for Ira D. Sankey, with
Robert Taylor added on by Mother. When Father was
offered the pastorate of the First Presbyterian Tabernacle at
San Francisco, he turned the farm back to his father for cash
and took off for the West. My mother and my baby sister
Ethel and I followed as soon as he had made preparations for
us. In San Francisco Father became known as the Sporting
Parson, because he loved outdoor life and big-game hunting.
Frequently he supplied deer and bear steaks for members of
his congregation. Once he and Mother made a trip to the
Hawaiian Islands, where they were entertained by island
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
royalty and took part in exciting hunts for the small wild
cattle that overran some of the islands.
Father was a big and handsome man, standing an inch over
six feet and weighing about 190 pounds. His thick black hair
was combed back from his forehead, and he had a full mus
tache that curled a trifle at the ends.
He was an excellent shot and a natural athlete. I have seen
him jump completely over the dining-room table from a
standing start. He spoke gravely and precisely, but he was a
man who enjoyed a good time, especially in the outdoors.
His congregation had given him an unusual gun, which
had three barrels. Two were shot-gun barrels and the third,
which was underneath, was a rifle. One day when we were
hunting I saw him line up two birds and bring down both of
them with a shot from one barrel. As he fired, a large buck
deer and a young buck got up from the brush near by and
ran in different directions. He got both of them with the other
two barrels.
When I was seven or eight years old, he sometimes took
me with him to hunting camps in northern California. The
little narrow-gauge railroad we traveled on followed a twist
ing, curving path into the mountains, sometimes almost
doubling back on itself. It also ran very slowly, and more
than once we got off on a curve and cut across the hillside to
shoot some game, catching the train on the run again as it
rounded the next loop in the track.
When I was about eight, my mother took us children I
now had a small brother named Ned back to Ohio and
Pennsylvania on a visit. In those days it took ten days to
-19-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
make the trip from California by train, and a dreary journey
it was. While we were gone, Father became ill, and the
doctors told him he ought to live in the mountains. He wrote
us about it. He said that he had bought a ranch in the moun
tains above the Santa Ynez Valley in southern California,
and that it would be ready for us when we got back.
We didn't go directly there, however. He met us at Dun
can's Mills, above San Francisco, when we returned. He was
thin and seemed restless, and when he had kissed each of us,
he turned to Mother and said:
"Bessie, IVe got to have a drink of whisky."
We all looked at him in pop-eyed fashion, except Mother,
who may have realized that he was tired and sick, and that
the long trip from Santa Ynez had done him no good.
"Will," she said, "don't you go in a saloon. People will talk.
If you need a drink, just get a bottle of whisky and take it to
our hotel room."
Father was not a drinking man, except for wine with his
meals occasionally, but this time he had made up his mind
that he needed a drink, and he wasn't going to resort to any
subterfuge.
"No, ma'am/' he said. "I need a drink and 111 be honest
about it and have it at the bar."
He went into the saloon and leaned his long frame against
the bar and had his drink. When he came back I asked him
when we would get started for the ranch.
"Well, son," lie replied, "we'll have to wait a few days.
Things aren't quite ready there and we need some rest. Then
we'll take the boat down to Santa Barbara."
-20-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
A few days later we went down to Santa Barbara. That,
Father explained, was as close to the ranch as the boat went.
"Now we have to get the stage," he added. "This is the
Wild West."
I thought it was fine. The stage was pulled by four lively
horses and we jolted over a rocky, dusty road that wound
slowly over San Marcos Pass. On beyond in the valley the road
was frequently so full of ruts that we had to circle into the
open fields to avoid getting stuck. It was fun to keep an eye
peeled for Indians and stagecoach robbers. There weren't
any highwaymen that day and there never had been any
Indians, but it was still fun. We were all pretty tired by the
end of the day and glad to see the town of Santa Ynez. We
were really out in the wilds.
"Are we there now?" I asked Father after we had washed
the top layer of dust off our faces. He grinned at me and said
that we were just going to stop in Santa Ynez for the night, be
cause that was as close to the ranch as the stage line went.
"Tomorrow," he went on, "we get some buckboards and a
few pack mules and go up that way." He pointed toward the
mountains. I looked at Mother. She had never lived in sur
roundings much more rugged than East Liverpool and San
Francisco, and she was pretty busy with Ethel and Ned, but
her eyes twinkled at me. She was game.
The next day we traveled slowly along the rough moun
tain road, climbing steadily. The buckboards bounced and the
pack mules had to be prodded along. There was an occa
sional ranch house, but mostly there were just the woods and
the mountains. About dusk we stopped. I couldn't see any-
-21-
"Dear Mr. President . . .**
thing that looked like a ranch, but I didn't feel much like
asking questions again.
Father explained, however, that we couldn't get to the
ranch that night and that we would camp where we were.
"This is as close to the ranch as the road goes/' he said.
"Tomorrow well go on horseback. I Ve got some stone sledges
to haul our goods on. It's only four miles up the trail."
It all seemed more than passing strange to me, but I was
too tired to think about it and we settled down to sleep after
a makeshift supper.
Next morning we loaded the pack mules and the stone
sledges and started out over a trail that was too rough for
anything with wheels. It was almost too rough in spots for
the sledges, and often we had to hold up one side of a sledge
while the mules pulled it uncertainly over a narrow rocky
ledge.
I have no idea what was going through Mother's mind as
we labored up that trail to the ranch in Cachuma canyon.
She was a pretty, plump, and healthy young woman, not
much more than five feet tall, and she was not the worrying
kind. Her dark, red-tinged hair was long enough to reach
below her waist, but she wore it twisted into knots on her
head, usually without a hat. In the mountains she wore heavy
bloomers that came below her knees and a dark skirt that
barely covered the bloomers. Nothing ever seemed to faze
her, then or later.
Perhaps she had known all along what we were heading
for, or perhaps she was just one of those women who can take
what comes, whether it's the wilderness or the White House.
-22-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
Anyway she did, and it seemed to me that she was just about
as much in character that day on the rocky trail as she was
later among the gold braid and fancy gowns at a White
House reception.
But somewhere along that trail I began to connect up what
had happened and to guess that Father's illness was more
serious than we had been told. Looking back at it now, I
assume that he had suffered a nervous breakdown and that,
at least part of the time, his actions were irrational. But then
I realized it only vaguely, and Mother never let on that any
thing was wrong. Even with three small children on her
hands, she could take it.
We came at last to the ranch, in a rugged canyon with a
good stream running through it. Near the stream was a sturdy
little storehouse and we stopped there first. Father showed
us how well he had stocked it. He was quite proud of the
cases of good wine, bottled olives, canned fruit (very rare in
those days), -and other luxury goods that were stacked high
along the walls. There was plenty to last through the
winter.
We walked on across the ranch. There were plenty of
chickens and turkeys and milkcows. There was, in fact, just
one thing that Father had neglected. There wasn't any house
to live in. The foundation of a house had been started, but it
would be months before it was finished. Meantime, there were
two tents with wooden floors to shelter usand the rainy
season was coming on. There were stoves and beds in the
tents and that night we went to sleep exhausted, worrying
very little about tomorrow.
-23-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
Well, we got along. There were times when Father was
his old self and we hunted together. On one such occasion we
walked about a mile up the mountain, where he shot a deer
that bounded away up the trail and around a bend. We fol
lowed the trail of blood, polished the deer off, and hung it up
on a tree to be picked up later.
Going back down the trail, Father walked in front. Just as
he came to the bend he stopped abruptly, stepped back and
fired his gun. A big mountain lion landed exactly where
Father had been standing. It was very dead, having expired
in mid-air with one bullet in its heart. Didn't even move after
it hit the ground. Apparently the lion had been following the
trail of blood left by the deer, and was so excited that it
attacked the moment it saw us. It measured eight feet from
nose to the tip of its tail and was about the biggest mountain
lion I ever saw. I saw quite a few of them, too, because while
we lived on the ranch they used to come down to the edge of
the creek almost every night and try to make off with some of
our turkeys or chickens. Sometimes they made a terrific
racket.
There were not many hunting expeditions, however, in
Cachuma canyon, because Father's health was failing rapidly
and he became irritable and erratic. He lost his taste for ordi
nary food and spent much of his time planning and preparing
delicacies, or sending me to town on horseback to bring him
something that he thought might whet his appetite. I was
kept so busy running his errands and working on the
ranch that I often found myself falling asleep at meals or on
horseback.
-24-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
Finally he got some pigeons, and built a pigeon cote on a
high pole. He remembered that he had enjoyed squab when
he lived in the city and could get it properly prepared. About
four o'clock one morning he woke me up and sent me out to
the pigeon cote.
"Ira," he said, "I always like squab for breakfast Will you
climb up that pole and get me one?"
Weary, half -asleep, and numb, I climbed up the pole, and
Father had squab for breakfast. He was a good cook, and it
was probably better than he could have got under glass at the
Hotel St. Francis. But almost every morning for weeks we
repeated that scene before dawn. It became a sort of night
mare that went on endlessly and dreadfully, high up there in
the mountain canyon witnessed only by our sleepy dogs and
occasionally a sulky wildcat.
Father also had purchased a lot of blooded stock for the
ranch. We had horses, pigs, turkeys, and cattle, but they
were not properly cared for and got wilder and wilder. Even
tually, all of them were lost to the wilds, to the adjacent
ranches, or to the 'animals in the forest.
Father's condition became steadily worse, and finally he
had to go to a sanitarium near San Francisco, where he died
in 1887. Mother went to San Francisco at the time of his
death, leaving me alone on the ranch and parking my brother
and sister with a family down in the Santa Ynez Valley.
I didn't mind being left alone, because I could take care
of myself, but I didn't often see anybody because we were
so far off the road. So I was surprised one day when a dirty
and bearded character showed up at the ranch house.
-25-
"Dear Mr, President . . ."
"Hello, sonny/' he said. "Where's your folks?"
I told him.
"You here alone, eh? . . . Well, I was just looking around
for a place to stay. Maybe I could sleep in that cabin you got
down on the creek. I guess that'll be okay, eh?"
"What are you doing here?" I asked him. He looked like a
tough one to me.
"Oh, I got a job with the old guy across the hill. Herding
his cattle. That cabin of yours is handy and I'll just sleep
there. My name is Blood/'
There wasn't much I could do about it. That night I locked
myself in the house and then locked the door of my room, and
I got out the biggest bear trap we had. It was so big you had
to use a lever to open the jaws and set it. I got it set and put
it under the only window of my room. Even then I didn't
sleep well. Blood didn't look like a cattleman, and after I had
watched him a few days I was pretty sure he was lying.
Then one day the sheriff rode up to the house and asked if
Td seen any strangers around. I told him about Blood and he
said that was -the man.
"Want him for robbing a stagecoach," he said. But when
we went to the cabin Blood was gone. They caught him the
next week at a town down in the valley, but I don't know
what finally happened to him.
Not long after that I got to feeling lonesome, and one day
I saddled a horse and rode down to the valley to see Ethel
and Ned. I met them on the road before I got to the ranch
house where they were staying. Both of them burst into tears
when they saw me. They were dirty, and told me fearfully
-26-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
that they had been mistreated by the family that was sup
posed to be looking after them. I took them up on the horse
and we rode back to the ranch.
We got along all right until a few nights later, when a
terrific storm hit the canyon. The wind blew so hard that the
house shook and we couldn't sleep. After a while we became
badly frightened, and we got up in the middle of the night
and started down the hill to a little cabin that was better
protected from the wind. I carried Ned and held onto Ethel's
hand, and I thought we were all three going to be blown off
the side of the mountain. Just as we left the house, the whole
roof blew off, and a big piece of it sailed a few feet over our
heads. We ran madly to the cabin. Soon a heavy snowfall
began.
The next day before daylight Mother arrived, leading a
horse and carrying her little black-and-tan terrier. The eve
ning before, she had called at the ranch where Ethel and Ned
were supposed to be staying, and found them gone. The
ranchers didn't know where they were, and didn't seem to
care much. Mother borrowed a horse and, carrying the little
dog, started the fifteen-mile ride to the ranch. About four
miles from the ranch the dog jumped out of her arms,
and after she had caught it again she couldn't get back on
the horse. She walked the last four miles, only to find the roof
blown off the house, the rooms covered with snow, and no
children in sight. We were all three sound asleep when she
found us in the cabin. For an Easterner, Mother certainly put
up with some rough times in Calif omia.
The only schooling we had was when Mother had time to
_27-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
teach us to read and write, and to work simple arithmetic
problems and a little grammar. A few rough edges were
knocked off by a sojourn in Ballard, where I attended the
country school. Mother's brother John was getting along well
in East Liverpool, Ohio, and in 1889 he decided to send me
to the San Mateo Military School. I was a raw and inde
pendent kid by that time. I didn't care much for discipline,
and I didn't stand in -awe of my elders, or anyone else. The
life I had been living on the ranch and on long hunting
trips in the mountains failed to encourage respect for
authority, but I was usually able to protect myself in the
clinches.
When I first went to San Mateo, I didn't like the idea of
being pushed around by the upperclass boys, and I let them
know it. They decided to give the newcomer a lesson in
discipline and, almost before I realized what was happening,
they had me in an impromptu outdoor boxing match with
the school champion. There wasn't any question in anybody's
mind, including my own, that he was going to teach me to
respect the upperclassmen by knocking my head off.
Since I couldn't get out of it, I put on the boxing gloves
and approached him with as much confidence as I could
muster. He obviously had decided to waste no time on me,
and he uncorked his Sunday punch in the direction of my
chin. It would have been a devastating blow except that as
he swung, his foot slipped on some small stones and he
started to fall. I saw what was happening and stepped in
close and popped him square in the face as he went down.
After that I didn't waste any time. I turned my back on him,
-28-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
shrugged my shoulders and took off the boxing gloves. I
walked away as sedately and as rapidly as possible. Even
then I knew a lucky break when I saw it.
In school I was ahead of my class in some things, but far
behind in others. After a year and a half, however, I man
aged to get to the top of the honor list in everything except
deportment.
My uncle John had been urging Mother to return to Ohio,
and finally she made a trip there, leaving us children in the
care of different families around Santa Ynez. My brothei
stayed with Mrs. Lyman, who owned a ranch not far from
us. She was a vigorous and emphatic old girl who had had
five husbands and was still going strong. She didn't want Ned
to wear out his good clothes around the ranch, so she made
him some strange costumes out of flour sacks. He looked like
a freak, but he loved it, and later we had a tough time getting
him back into ordinary clothes.
A remarkable old character with a flossy white beard and
known all over the county as Uncle Davy Brown lived twenty
miles over the mountain from Mrs. Lyman. Uncle Davy's
leathery face had more wrinkles than a box of prunes, but he
was a lively number, and I often visited with him for several
days at a time. His cabin was a one-room affair with a door
but no windows, and there was a lean-to where he did his
cooking. The lean-to had swinging doors at each end, and
when he wanted a fire he would haul in a long log the size
of a tree, trim the branches, and put it on a sort of fireplace
made of rocks in the center of the shed. He would then start
a fire in the middle of the tree and keep pushing the ends
-29-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
together as the middle burned. It worked fine, and saved a lot
of wood-chopping.
One night when I was sitting on a pyramid of logs covered
with bearskins and listening to Uncle Davy's stories of the
Mexican War we heard a squawking among the chickens
roosting in a tree near the cabin.
"That varmint's back/' Uncle Davy muttered, and he got
down his muzzle-loading rifle. He handed me a lighted pine
knot and told me to throw it over the cabin when he yelled. I
threw it, making an arc of fire over the roof, and while the
light lasted he shot a big mountain lion off a limb above the
roof. I shall never forget the thump as it hit the roof and the
scratching as it slithered off. In the meantime I had taken
refuge in the cabin with the door tight shut. I still have one of
the lion's claws.
Uncle Davy had a boy working for him, but they didn't
get along, and he was always asking me to take over the job.
Finally he told Mother that he would legally adopt me and
make me his heir. He claimed he had two ranches and $25,000
in the bank, and he pointed out that he wasn't going to be
around much longer, because he was then about ninety.
Mother was planning to return to Ohio and she declined the
offer. We rather doubted that the old duffer had any money.
He didn't look it, and we thought he probably just wanted a
boy to help on the ranch.
Once every week Uncle Davy got aboard a horse and rode
down to the lazy, dusty little town of Ballard to buy a few
supplies and see how civilization was getting along. His road
went past Mrs. Lyman's ranch and he always stopped off
-30-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
there to get a meal and sometimes to stay overnight. One
week he failed to show up on schedule. Mrs. Lyman saddled
a horse and rode over to his ranch and found him pretty sick.
She settled down to take care of him.
Years before that time Mother had agreed with Uncle John
and had gathered us children together again and taken us
back to East Liverpool. I went to high school there. I didn't
get back to the Santa Ynez Valley for more than half a cen
tury, and when I did our ranch had reverted to the wilds. I
went up to look it over one day and had a lot of trouble
finding the spot where the house had been. A willow tree
about two feet thick was growing where once we had the
kitchen. Everything was changed except the mountains and
Ballard. Both seemed to be just about the same. When I was
reading a newspaper a few days later I came across a column
that reprinted items from "Fifty Years Ago." One of the items
said:
July 7, 1898
An estate valued at $30,000 has been left to the woman who
took care of him in his old age by Uncle Davy Brown of Guada-
lupe. Two mules, Tom and Jinks, are to be cared for upon the
ranch without work so long as either of them lives. The 30-year-
old animals are to be kept in good condition with ample pasture.
Declaring he had never been married, the deceased provided that
any alleged widows or adopted children if proved authentic should
receive $50.
Well, I thought, I finally got the end of the story. It was
Mrs. Lyman, however, who got the dough.
-31-
CHAPTER THREE
TT WAS SITTING IN A SMALL POKER GAME ONE MARCH EVENING
- in 1897 at Wooster, Ohio, and holding three aces. The pot
had just been worked up to an interesting size when my
brother ran in with a telegram. I had been more or less
expecting the telegram, but my hand trembled a bit as I
carefully put down my cards and tore it open. It said
IF INTERESTED IN POSITION AT WHITE HOUSE $1200 PER
ANNUM COME AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. UNCLE JOHN.
I left the three aces, a six, and a trey face down on the table
and rushed home to get ready. It was a big break and a big
salary for me, but it was more than that. It was the first time
I had been able to put much faith in my family's long-stand
ing belief that politics paid off. Uncle John had come through
in the pinch. It was about time he got a break, too, because he
had lately suffered some unkind blows. One had come a few
years earlier when that man Grover Cleveland got into the
White House and the Democrats put through a free-trade
program. Those were sad days for Uncle John and a lot of
other Republican industrialists.
-32-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
Another blow came when I announced I would do almost
anything in the world except go into Uncle John's pottery
business. I had attended Wooster University (it is now
Wooster College) , pitched for the baseball team, learned not
to draw to an inside straight, squired a few pretty girls
around, and completed my course without arousing any out
bursts of enthusiasm on the part of the university authorities.
I had some vague idea that I would like to study law, but
the truth is that I was not headed in any particular direction
along life's highway. That meant that Uncle John had to
worry about me as well as about Grover Cleveland, because
nobody, including myself, could figure out exactly what I
was fitted for in life. Mr. McKinley solved both problems by
defeating the Democrats in the presidential election and
inviting Uncle John to visit at the White House immediately
after the inaugural ceremonies. He was still the Presidents
guest when he sent the telegram telling me to hurry to Wash
ington. Neither he nor Mr. McKinley had yet figured out
what I was fitted for, but the President was willing to try.
My job, when I got to it, was in the executive offices, which
were on the second floor of the White House proper. The
office force of six clerks, a secretary, an assistant secretary,
and an executive clerk was in two rooms across the hall from
the presidential office, which adjoined the Lincoln Room.
John Addison Porter, who was Mr. McKinley's first secretary,
took an interest in me, but sometimes my green and probably
dumb performances drove him into an outburst of temper.
My duties as a clerk were not very strenuous, and when the
President was out of town I had plenty of free time. I was
-33-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
beginning to worry about the danger of my job vanishing
into thin air when Porter decided that I should help Mrs.
McKinley with her mail. She was a semi-invalid, a gentle and
kindly woman, and I enjoyed working with her.
I put my best efforts into the job. Mrs. McKinley was
pleased and I, unknowingly, had solved the problem of a
career. A man named Joe Moss had been working in the presi
dential offices, and among other things he handled the Presi
dent's mail when it was delivered, opening and sorting the
letters and turning them over to Porter or one of the clerks.
When Moss was transferred elsewhere, Porter looked around
for someone to take over this thankless odd job and picked
on me because I had handled Mrs. McKinley's mail. I heaved
a sigh of relief when I was told the news. They had practically
had to manufacture a job for me, but now I had it, and it was
going to be fifty years before they could get me out of it.
When you think of the McKinley days you have to forget
such things as radios, bubble gum, airplanes, and atom
bombs. There weren't any. There were days of war at the
turn of the century, but mostly these were days of tremendous
economic expansion, of handsome carriages on the avenues,
of waving plumes on ladies* hats and real bustles that in no
way resembled the fashionable foolishness that came along
fifty years later with something called the New Look. The
railroads were sticking out shining steel fingers all over the
West, and great financial empires rocked with the schemes
of the James J. Hills, the Morgans, the Harrimans, and the
Jacob Schiffs. There was a newfangled contraption called the
Stanley Steamer, a horseless carriage that ran on steam gen-
-34-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
crated by naphtha providing it could find any road good
enough to run on.
But these things, for the most part, touched the White
House only pleasantly, or indirectly, or not at all. Except for
the war, of course, and the Stanley Steamer, in which the
President was persuaded to go for a trial spin at the speed of
eighteen miles an hour. It was generally conceded that such
speed was outrageous, and a foolish risk of the neck of the
Chief Executive.
One of the first things I noticed about life in the White
House and it was still noticeable when I retired from my
job was the heavy load that the President personally is
forced to carry. The nation has grown and expanded and
become a highly complex civilization in the last century and
a half. Yet in many ways the Presidency has remained almost
unchanged since the days of George Washington, permitting
a vast burden of pressures and duties to grow up that make
it a killing job.
I would go into President McKinley's office and find him
sadly eying a huge stack of commissions, including those of
junior officers. He would shake his head unhappily, or he
might hum a Methodist tune as if it would give him courage
to face the task.
"Let's get busy," he would say after greeting me. I would
hand him a commission from the pile, he would sign it, and
then I would put it on a table to dry before it was returned to
the department for mailing. This was necessary since each
commission was made of sheepskin and could not be blotted.
The President would hum harder and sign less happily as we
-35-
"Dear Mr , President . . "
worked tlirougli the pile, and soon all the desks in the office
would be covered and I would start spreading the commis
sions out on the floor. By the time the first one signed was dry,
the Chief Executive would be surrounded by an ocean of
commissions that stopped all traffic and virtually all business.
"'Something ought to be done about this/' he would com
plain at intervals. "Somebody else ought to be able to sign
these."
But it was a long time before the President was even
partly relieved of a job that may have been necessary in
George Washington's day, but not in the twentieth century.
Even today, however, it is a duty that eats heavily into the
President's time and strength.
I suppose that McKinley, Wilson, and Franklin Roosevelt,
because they were war Presidents, felt the strain of office
more acutely than the others I knew. I can never forget Presi
dent McKinley's face when he stood in front of the White
House and watched the boys who had fought in Cuba parade
up Pennsylvania Avenue. The sickly color of their skin and
the way they marched even when passing before the Com-
mander-in-Chief told a story that the President already knew
from countless cables and letters that I had passed on to him.
It was a sordid story of contractors who took big profits for
supplying the Army with moldy hard tack and spoiled
corned beef; of inadequate medical supplies for men stricken
with malaria, typhoid, and dysentery; of death by disease
and neglect far outweighing the toll among those who went
into battle. Sometimes Mr. McKinley sat at his desk until long
after midnight reading the letters and cables that disclosed
-36-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
this disgrace to the nation. The anger and disgust and sorrow
that they brought him made his face gray and grim as he
watched the parade of victory in which so many men could
never march because of greed and inefficiency at home.
Mr. McKinley was, I suppose, the last of the old-style
frock-coat presidents, but to me he was always a thoughtful
friend. There was far more call in those days for the President
to employ a personal approach in political affairs, and in this
Mr. McKinley was unequaled. On one early occasion before
he became President I saw him demonstrate his ability to
handle any situation with unruffled friendliness. My family
had a little summer camp in Ohio where Mr. McKinley was
a guest on the occasion of a small fishing party. He didn't
like summer camps, he didn't like outdoor sports, and above
all things, he didn't like fishing. But you would have thought
he was enjoying every minute of the day, particularly when
we displayed our prize catch, a 43-pound catfish that must
have been exceedingly revolting to the fastidious Mr.
McKinley.
Some of our less understanding friends insisted that he
should try his hand at fishing and, immaculate in frock coat
and black tie, he manfully took a pole and ventured down
to a rocky shelf along the river. There was a flat-bottomed
boat pulled up on the shelf, half out of the water, and Mr.
McKinley got into it in order to get his line farther out into
the water. Strangely enough, he hooked a fish, but as he was
trying to pull it in his weight slid the boat down the shelf and
water began to come in over the stern. Slowly, the boat was
sliding off the shelf and filling with water.
-37-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
I was closest to him and I ran over to grab the sinking
boat. The unhappy fisherman was akeady wet to the knees
and rocking dangerously, but he turned with grave dignity
and, holding his fishing pole aloft, staggered back to my
end of the boat and then to the rock shelf. He never lost his
good-humored composure, although I knew that he was
thoroughly disgusted and must have felt like consigning us
all to perdition as soon as he was alone in his sloshing
shoes.
1 1 Instead, he thanked me and said jokingly, "You have
saved my life, young man, and I shall always be indebted to
you." Then as he tried to repair some of the damage to his
clothes he kept up a steady stream of pleasant conversation,
giving me sage advice on my future, and saying that perhaps
one day he could help me with a job. Little did he know!
That was my first realization of the trials of a man who
would be President, and I sometimes wonder what others
would have done in the same circumstances. Teddy Roose
velt would have loved it, but I think Mr. Coolidge, for
instance, would have set his lips in grim silence.
Mr. McKinley was probably the hand-shakingest President
ever in the White House. There were normally three noon
time receptions a week, at which long lines of visitors would
gather to file past the Chief Executive. Mr. McKinley would
take his pkce in the East Room, resplendent in frock coat and
perhaps with a carnation pinned on his lapel, and the chief
usher would open the doors. Sometimes the line of waiting
visitors extended from the White House door out across the
lawn and as far as the Treasury Building, a block away. It
-38-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
was a sight to strike horror into the heart of even a strong
man, but Mr. McKinley took it in his stride.
Like all Presidents, he developed a technique of grasping
a visitor's hand before the other fellow had time to clamp
down, and thus, by holding the visitor's arm straight, he
avoided having his own hand squeezed hard. Then he
dragged the caller along as he shook hands, so that the line
kept moving. Once he clasped 1200 hands in 19 minutes, or
about one per second. That was some speed, but he never
gave the impression that it was a heavy physical strain. Mr.
McKinley was always in condition, because he was always
shaking somebody's hand. Often he gave every sign of enjoy
ing it, and I think he would have felt he was getting soft
without a few hundred hands to shake every day.
These public affairs were only part of his heavy political
schedule. The records of our office for one year showed that
some 30,000 job-hunters dropped in at the White House, that
an average of 20 Congressional callers were on the list daily,
and that 70,000 persons visited the East Room. The President
saw or shook hands with a large proportion of the visitors,
and of course he held long conferences with some.
In a different classification were such influential regular
callers as Senator Boies Penrose, the quiet, heavy-set Pennsyl
vania political boss, and Senator Mark Hanna of Ohio, who
Downed" the President. The cartoonist always pictured Hanna
as wearing clothes spangled with dollar marks, but not only
was he the most conservative dresser in Congress, he was also
one of the most unobtrusive visitors around the White House.
Penrose was the only powerful political figure I knew who
-39-
Mr. President . . "
would write an endorsement of any job-hunter wlio hap
pened to seek his help so help me, anybody! We received
hundreds of such letters from him., and we always treated
them perfunctorily. We knew that they didn't mean anything
and that he didn't expect us to pay any attention to them. If
he was really interested in getting a job for someone, he
would speak directly to the President and he usually got
action.
Two unusual women also were familiar figures to us not
because they had the run of the White House office, as did
Penrose and Hanna, but because they were lobbyists. One was
Dr. Mary Walter, a small, dried-up, and birdlike little woman
who was a tireless worker for women's rights. She wore men's
clothes and was looked upon publicly as a sort of freak, but
she was a brilliant conversationalist and achieved a great deal
by buttonholing legislators who came to the office. It was
then against the law in many places for women to wear men's
clothes, but Congress thought so highly of Dr. Walker that a
special resolution was passed giving her the right to dress as
she pleased anywhere in the United States or its territories.
She always wore a dark coat, vest, shirt and tie, and trousers.
The other woman was Queen Lil, who wanted to succeed
her brother on the 'throne of the Hawaiian Islands. She was
fat, very dusky, and quite unlike the storybook picture of
Hawaiian royalty, but she wore colorful and extravagant
dresses, and for a while was one of the more spectacular sights
of Washington. She came almost daily to the White House
to >ask whether the President had done anything about restor
ing her throne. He never had, and after some weeks she
-40-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
became discouraged and went back to her islands, where the
President eventually installed a governor.
One o the reasons things ran smoothly at the White House
was that there were men like George B. Cortelyou, who came
in during the Cleveland administration, and who became
secretary to Presidents McKinley and Theodore Roosevelt.
He was perhaps the most competent and most thoughtful
man I ever worked with, and he knew every detail of every
job in the White House, from janitor to President. He was
never too busy to help a befuddled young clerk, and I re
member once walking in on him while he was in conference
and asking him how I should describe a small pamphlet that
had been sent to Mrs. McKinley and which I had been told
to acknowledge. If he was annoyed, he gave no sign. Instead
he gravely advised me to call it "a dainty publication," which
is exactly what it was.
John Addison Porter, who was President McKinley's first
secretary, had a violent temper, but he also indulged in out
bursts of extreme friendliness. One of the thrills of my first
days in the White House was an argument between Porter
and Colonel (later General) Theodore Bingham, who became
Police Commissioner of New York in 1906, but was then in
charge of Buildings and Grounds. They frequently disagreed,
and when they did the rest of the office quit work and gath
ered around just to see which could reach the highest peak
of profanity and abuse. Both were good, but when they
reached a point where -they seemed ready to tear each other
limb from limb, one would say, "Well, let's go to lunch," and
they would walk off arm in arm.
-41-
"Dear Mr. President . . /'
We did a lot of work around the White House in those
days, but we sometimes could coast along, too. I recall being
kidded about the 'time old Uncle Warren Young, who was the
roly-poly chief clerk, stopped by my desk and saw I was
absent.
"Where's Ira?" he asked. Somebody said I was sick.
"Sick, eh?" Uncle Warren said, pointing to an item he had
been reading on the sports page of his paper. "I see he bowled
a good score in the tournament last night." (That was in the
days when I was really rolling them! )
Everybody got a laugh out of it except Uncle Warren, who
had to do my work, but we covered up for each other, and
nobody complained about my one-day "illness."
The White House in McKinley's time was a poorly pre
served and rat-infested old mansion that the President could
neither get rid of nor get repaired. Representatives from out
in the farming country were preponderant in Congress, and
they thought the McKinleys were pretty goldarned lucky
to have a big house like that free, especially when Congress
men had a time of it trying to find room and board in
Washington for $2 a day. What did it matter if the kitchen
needed a new coat of paint? Congress couldn't spare the
money right then.
As a matter of fact, the mansion was not much changed
from the time it had been rebuilt after being burned by the
British. Even the grounds were almost the same, because
every tree and bush was marked on the White House plans,
and still is. Whenever a tree dies another of the same type is
planted in its place.
-42-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
You entered the front door (it was originally the back
door) and found yourself in a lobby with a back wall made
of colored glass, much like a church window, made by Tif
fany. On the other side of the glass partition a corridor ran
the length of the house from the East Room to the State
Dining Room on the west. Off one side of the lobby was a
little entry from which a narrow wooden stairway mounted
to the second floor, making two turns on the way. After the
second turn you came to a landing and a door opening into a
wide corridor lined with chairs and a table or two. This was
a sort of lobby where callers waited their turn.
The Lincoln Room served as a private office for the Presi
dent, but he had another larger office next door and, adjoin
ing that, a corner office for his secretary. When I first went
to the White House as a rather aimless young man just out of
college, I worked in the office of Secretary Porter for a few
months. I never felt much awe of famous people, but I was
interested in the parade of dignitaries, and I probably took
on some inflated ideas about my own importance now that I
was on the White House staff. Even though I was appointed
through political pull and Porter merely stuck me at a desk
until he could find a job for me, I thought that it wasn't
just anybody who could step into such historic surround
ings.
That's why I remember so clearly "the man who let him
out/' He came into the office after I had been there twiddling
my thumbs for a few days and approached me gravely, a big
man with a grizzled beard, but grown old and shrunken into
his clothes. He looked at me with watery eyes, looked out the
-43-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
window at the swamps leading down to the Potomac, and
introduced himself as Pop Pendel
"I'm the man who let him out," he explained in a quiet
voice.
"How's that?" I asked.
"The way it was that night/' he said, "was that he come
down to the front door where the others was waiting for him*
I remember it clear. The carriage was waiting and ready to
take them to the theater where some famous lady was per
forming in a stage show. A famous actress. . . . Well, they
was all ready to go and they come over to the door where I
was standing, because I was an usher then just like I am now.
He was walking tall and straight and he smiled pleasant-like
at me and I opened the door for him to go down to Ford's
Theatre. I'm the man who let him out"
He stared out the window again and I thought he must be
remembering that dreadful night and the shot fired at Ford's
Theatre and the infamy of John Wilkes Booth, but instead he
pointed a long finger at the window.
-"I used to see him lots of times during the war standing
right where you are with the saddest look on his face/' he
said. "He would stand here at night and look out this win
dow and he could see the campfires across the river and
nobody knew just how close the rebels were or whether they
were getting ready for an attack on Washington. He would
stand here looking until late at night sometimes."
Pop Pendel turned around and started out, but halfway to
the door he said: "I was in the Army before I was an usher
here." Then he went on his way. I heard him tell the story
''Dear Mr. President . . "
many times, and lie was always "the man who let him
,
out.
When Porter later put me in charge of the President's mail,
I was moved across the hall, where the staff worked. There
was one large room for the assistant secretary and a half-
dozen clerks. Then there was another narrow room at the
northeast comer. In it were a telegraph operator, a three-foot-
high boxlike contraption with a dial that served as a house
telephone and my desk. Oh yes, there was also a partitioned-
off corner that concealed the office toilet.
It was sometimes a little difficult under these conditions
for me to maintain the feeling of dignity that I had fostered
when I sat where Lincoln had looked out the window, but at
least everybody in the offices came around every so often, and
usually stopped for a chat. Everybody except the President,
who took advantage of 'the plumbing facilities in his living
quarters at the other end of the house.
There was an elevator in the White House, but it operated
on water pressure from a tank on the roof, and usually the
pressure was low and the elevator declined to run. The only
time it ever seemed likely that we would get Congressional
approval for Wliite House repairs was when some stout
Senator or Representative would call on the President and
have to puff up the winding stairs. Many of them complained
bitterly, and couldn't understand why the McKinleys didn't
keep the machinery in good shape.
Mr. McKinley would listen gravely to their complaints and
nod his head, but later when I said something to him about
the problem, he merely smiled.
-45-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
"Let them complain/* lie remarked with a good deal of
feeling. "It's too easy for them to get up here the way it is."
The presidential mail was not heavy in comparison with
today's but, as I have said, it ran about 100 letters a day and
in times of crisis mounted to 1000 or more, most of them
from citizens who wanted Mr. McKinley either to get into
war with Spain in a hurry or to stay out of war with Spain.
The prowar writers bitterly denounced the President as
a coward and a pussyfooter. He took these attacks calmly,
and spent more time than necessary explaining that it was
his duty to encourage every possibility of a peaceful settle
ment.
It is difficult to draw a line, but these letters and telegrams
were one of the early forms of organized propaganda mail
that eventually grew to a huge volume, I didn't take much
stock in obviously inspired letters at that time, and in later
years I was even less impressed, but I knew some Presidents
who were influenced by the erroneous belief that they were
listening to the voice of the people. My own idea was that if
a man couldn't make up his own mind after he knew the facts,
he didn't have any business being President.
Mr. McKinley was scrupulous about making members of
his family pull their own weight, and he refused a commis
sion to his nephew during the war, but he was less rigid in
regard to his friends. I recall one instance in which a hot-
tempered young journalist got in a rather sensational jam
that was almost the reverse of the famous Patton slapping
incident of World War II.
Sylvester Scoville, son of a president of Wooster University,
-46-
"Dear Mr. President . . .**
which I had attended, became a newspaper correspondent in
Cuba during -the war and was dashing around Santiago when
the Spanish forces capitulated. He went to the headquarters
of General William Shafter to get a statement about the
surrender. Shafter was one of those hardheaded old soldiers
who didn't understand much about the press, and he was not
of a mind to give out any information.
The impetuous young reporter argued with him without
success and, in a flash of temper, slapped Shafter across the
face and stalked out. The General fumed and fussed, but in
those days there were no definite rules for dealing with cor
respondents, and all he could do was ship Scoville back to
Washington without delay. There was a lot of speculation as
to what would happen to him, and for several days some very
influential political figures from Ohio wandered into the
White House to ask the President to go easy.
One day Scoville himself came by. He was a merry and
dashing young man in a wrinkled suit, and I felt rather sym
pathetic toward him, but the President declined to receive
him. I told him I had attended Wooster University and
invited him out for a drink, which he seemed to need at that
point We went around to a famous but exclusive old bar
that was reached only by going through a dusty storeroom
where whisky cases were stacked high along the walls. Sco
ville explained that he was sorry about the slapping incident,
and had merely wanted to apologize to the President. We
talked it over and decided that they couldn't do much other
than charge him with disorderly conduct, and after a few
drinks, we went out and had a fine dinner. Eventually, Mr.
-47-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
McKinley chose to ignore the whole affair and let it die out
without taking any action.
The death of Mr. McKinley at the hands of a crazed assas
sin was a terrible blow to the White House staff. We spent
days and nights waiting beside the telegraph instrument for
word from his bedside in Buffalo, sending out for food and
sleeping in chairs in the office. We almost lynched a callous
young reporter who wandered in late one evening and re
marked that he was tired of waiting for the end and wished
the President would "get it over with."
When it was all over, we felt that things would never be
the same again, and we looked forward with extreme uneasi
ness to the administration of Theodore Roosevelt. We feared
we would be housed with a sort of wild-eyed man who might
fire us at once or dispatch us without warning on a big-game
hunting expedition in Tibet.
But the famous T.R. came in like a lamb, and in time we
recovered the feeling that we were all one big family at
times a boisterous and squabbling family, but never sep
arated by any severe formality or unnecessary dignity as far
as the President was concerned. Occasionally, we would
have given a good deal for a greater degree of separation
from the rest of the family, but at least there was something
doing all the time.
-48-
CHAPTER FOUR
A 5 1 LOOK BACK ON MY EXPERIENCES IN WASHINGTON IT SEEMS
to me that one of the most pleasantly exciting periods
was the era of the first Roosevelts in the White House. The
times generally were unforgettable because of such natural
and historical phenomena as honeymoons at Niagara Falls,
shirt-waists, and high hair-dos, muckracking, the American
debut of Caruso, and the inventive daring of Langley, whose
airplane didn't fly, and the Wright brothers, whose air
plane did.
In particular the times were exciting around the White
House, too, because you never knew what on earth might turn
up in the next mail delivery, although you could be fairly
certain that it would be something surprising. The Presi
dent's love of hunting, especially big-game hunting, and
other sports prompted persons all over the world to send him
trophies and, frequently, live animals. We had plenty of
eagles, dogs, lizards, and even the two beautiful Nubian lions
from Africa already mentioned, all of which would have made
a fine start on a private zoo in the mail room. It soon became
apparent, however, that things were going to be lively enough
without a zoo at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
-49-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
Many letters for T.R. arrived with a drawing or a cartoon
of him on the envelope, or sometimes with only a toothy
grin and a large pair of pince-nez spectacles as the only
address. The Post Office knew where to deliver such letters
even if the envelope had nothing on it but a drawing of a
"big stick/'
But for my money the period was most exciting because,
in my opinion, T.R. was about twenty years ahead of his
time. And I say that grudgingly, because his working pace
certainly interfered with my fishing expeditions and my
bowling score was a disgrace for lack of practice.
When T.R. arrived at the White House, he asked us to
carry on as we had been doing. That, however, was a mere
figure of speech, because the pace was immediately stepped
up. He usually got to his desk at 9 A.M., and expected every
thing to go into high gear at once. That meant I had to get
to work at least an hour earlier in order to have everything
ready. Then the whirlwind would begin.
Mr. Roosevelt wrote to experts everywhere on such subjects
as conservation and antitrust legislation, and he gathered an
amazing file of information, ideas, theories, and practical
suggestions for use in forming his own opinions. No sugges
tion was too advanced or too trivial for his attention. No
subject was too esoteric for him; he could and would discuss
almost anything with anybody and at least give the im
pression that he was well informed in the field. Often he
was.
We compiled a record of all of his correspondence, both
before and after becoming President, and he drew on it freely
-50-
"Dear Mr. President . . . ?>
in preparation of his speeches. The overtime efforts of the
whole staff were needed to keep up with him when he was
preparing a speech. He dictated to Rudolph Forster, the
executive clerk, and the rest of us brought him records or
transcribed Forster's shorthand notes in relays.
His daily routine was almost as hectic, but with certain
regular breaks. One was when he went to the Cabinet Room
to be shaved by John Mays, a colored usher who was still at
the White House when I retired in 1948. Mays would lather
the President's face and get to work, but something always
interrupted him. Sometimes a caller would arrive and the
secretary would inform Mr. Roosevelt, who often had him
brought into the Cabinet Room to talk while he was still
being barbered. At other times I would open an important
letter and take it to him at once and he would hold it out at
arm's length, squinting his eyes and puffing lather as he read.
If it was of immediate importance, he would call a secre
tary and tell him what to say in reply. Mays kept right on at
his job all the time with inimitable patience and skill.
Another regular event of the day was T.R/s exercise. It was
almost always of a violent nature, even when he just went for
a walk. He would often walk on a rainy day, and he loved to
wade across streams, tear through underbrush, and roam over
a few hills. The Secret Service men who had to follow
wherever he went would come back muddy and in wild dis
array, and frequently with a bitter and beaten look in their
eyes.
On other days, the President played tennis, went horseback
riding, boxed with his trainer, Sixsmith, or maybe with Mike
-51-
"Dear Mr. President . . .**
Donovan when Mike was in town. He also tried jujitsu at one
point, taking lessons from an expert from Japan.
The President's love of sports and big-game hunting was
an interesting and, to me, an often amusing story. I've always
liked sports myself. I pitched some pretty good baseball in my
day, I could hit a hard tennis ball, and I had killed a score of
deer before I was fifteen years old. So I always watched and
listened when the President played or talked sports.
He had been a sickly child, what he described as "pigeon-
breasted and asthmatic." But he had plenty of determination
and boundless courage, and through the years he built him
self into a rugged hiker, rider, and mountain-climber. His eyes
were always weak, however, and one of them was damaged
further as the result of a clumsy encounter during one of his
White House boxing matches. I never heard it admitted, but
it seemed to me that he had virtually lost the sight of that eye.
Many of his tennis matches were played just outside a
window of our office, and I often watched him in action. His
approach to the game was as energetic as Suzanne Lenglen's,
but without the same results. He jumped up and down con
tinually when he was playing the net, but when the ball
came his way he was strictly a "pusher" who shoved it in
the general direction of the net. Since he also sometimes had
trouble in gauging distances, and since he usually played
with members of his family who had no respect for his high
office, the President never made any remarkable impression
as a racket-wielder. He did, however, get plenty of exercise,
and his happy cry of "Bully shot!" or "Bully for youl" was the
best I ever heard on a tennis court
-52-
Mr. President . . . ?>
I never got a chance to ask the Japanese expert how the
President did at jujitsu, but at any rate he talked it expertly,
although less often than he talked o big-game hunting. On
one of his vacations he made a hunting trip in search of small
black bears that were found in the cane brakes of Mississippi.
There was a lot in the newspapers about Mr. Roosevelt's prow
ess as a hunter, some of it serious and some amusing, and it was
at that time that Clifford Berryman, the cartoonist for the
Washington Star, created the famous Teddy bear. There was
a strange story in some of the newspapers about the Presi
dent's refusing to shoot a small bear that had been brought
into camp by a woodsman. Berryman drew a cartoon of T.R.,
gun in hand and Rough Rider hat cocked on his head, mo
tioning away a wistful, frightened, wonderful little black
bear. The title was "Drawing the Line/* The little animal, as
the Teddy bear, became so popular that Berryman frequently
worked it into his cartoons in succeeding years.
This was the beginning of the Teddy-bear craze that spread
everywhere. At first the manufacturers made them princi
pally for adults, but they were so loved by children that they
still remain a big seller on the toy market. The toymakers
later tried various other animals, but never found one com
parable to the Teddy bear. It was a great publicity stunt for
Mr. Roosevelt, and he loved it.
I took a particular interest in the President's hunting
exploits in general because I was always curious about how
good a shot he was, and I liked the Teddy-bear mania in
general because it reminded me of a childhood experience of
mine in the California mountains near Santa Ynez, when my
-53-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
father was first talcing us to that ranch he had bought high
up in the Cachuma Valley. I was nine years old, and I wore
a tight-fitting little knitted suit that had been bought in
East Liverpool, Ohio, where knitted suits were the rage that
year among the mamas of boys under ten. Among boys
under ten they were a pain in the neck.
I had a .22 rifle that my father had foolishly given me, and
I didn't ask anybody's permission when I got up before break
fast and left our overnight camp to hunt for bears. I had never
fired the rifle, and I was still trying to figure out how it
worked when I met a Mexican about two hundred yards from
our camp. He was a lean, brown-faced fellow in faded over
alls, and when I first saw him he was smiling at me as if he
had never seen anything so odd in the mountains. I scowled
fiercely to cover up my embarrassment. He immediately be
came serious and asked where I was going. I replied tersely
that I was going hunting for bear.
"Bear?" he repeated, still looking at my tight city suit and
shaking his head. "Better not. Bears not like to be shot at"
I wasn't going to be discouraged by any such nonsense as
that, and I still didn't like the smile that flickered around the
corners of his mouth. But I did weaken when he said that the
bears all went far up to the mountaintop in the daytime.
Anyway, I could smell the bacon frying back at the camp by
then, and I accepted his suggestion that we walk back and
get some breakfast. He ate several helpings of bacon as he
talked over with Mother the dangers of nine-year-olds hunt
ing bears, but mostly he just kept looking at my knitted suit
and shaking his head in melancholy amusement.
-54-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
He was right. The suit didn't last long in the mountains,
but I lasted quite a while, including a number of periods
when I hunted for days by myself and if I didn't kill anything
I didn't eat. As I remember it, I always ate. I suppose T.R.
could have killed his own food, too, but I was always puzzled
by the fact that a man with such poor eyesight could be such
a famous hunter. Of course, things are made somewhat
simpler by guides and expert marksmen and beaters when
the hunter is also the President of the United States. And
Mr. Roosevelt made up in enthusiasm and bounce for any
thing that he may have 'been lacking.
The President not only played games to the limit but he
was a man of strong opinions (outside his own household),
and he thought everyone else ought to take his viewpoint
about sports. He ordered all mounted Army officers at Fort
Myer to get their spurs off their desk and go on regular riding
expeditions to show they could still do it. Some of these rides
were thirty miles, and Mr. Roosevelt went along to be sure
they didn't take any short cuts.
On one occasion a couple of small newsboys got in a
rumpus and exchanged a few blows on a street corner out
side our office. They were likable kids, and we persuaded
them to put on boxing gloves in the White House basement
to settle their quarrel. They did, and word of the encounter
got to Mr. Roosevelt. He had them brought into his office
to fight it out. With such an audience, the kids slugged each
other's brains out for as long as they could stand on their
feet, and the President cheered them on.
Every so often one or more of T.R/s famous Rough Riders
-55-
"Dear Mr. President . . .**
would turn up at the White House, some of them in a rest
less search for the excitement they had known during the
war and others in the uncertain hope of speaking again to
the man who had been their Colonel at San Juan Hill. Their
reputation was one of the President's political assets, and he
always managed to make them welcome. Occasionally they
would be entertained far beyond their greatest expectations
at the White House, where T.R. always liked to have guests
when he sat down at the table even if he had to invite what
ever caller happened to be in the office at the time.
The Rough Riders were a strange assortment of Indians,
cowboys, frontiersmen, and college graduates, and some of
the less stable ones became familiar characters around Wash
ington. I remember one in picturesque uniform who stayed
at the old Ebbitt House, where he was usually surrounded
by a group of idlers. After a few hours of sitting around the
lobby and spinning yarns he moved out to sit on the curb
stone. His listeners followed, and one of them asked why he
had left the lobby.
"Them danged chairs is too soft for me," he answered.
Another not-so-soft visitor was Eli Smith, who traveled
from Nome, Alaska, with a sledge and six dogs to call on
Mr. Roosevelt. It took him about a year to make the trip
overland except for a short boat journey and he was sup
posed to have won a bet of $10,000. The President welcomed
him and gave him a certificate showing the date of his ar
rival.
In .the same year, 1907, we welcomed Ezra Meeker, who
drove an ox team and covered wagon from Tacoma, Wash-
-58-
"Dear Mr. President . * .**
ington. It took him two years. The President had a long talk
with the grizzled but spry old man.
In addition to such official visitors, the White House was
a lively place because of the activities of the Roosevelt
children and their friends. At home, Mrs. Roosevelt was the
dominant member of that family, and she believed that
children ought to be allowed to express themselves and
develop their own personalities. There was so much self-
expression and so much personality around the place that
at times it seemed likely Congress would be forced to settle
the old quarrel over building a new White House because the
old one was going to be torn apart.
The boys Kermit, Archie, Teddy, and Quentin were en
couraged to be athletic, and when several of them engaged
in a rousing game of cowboy and Indian they regarded not
only the living quarters but the halls and offices as the wide
open range. They went through like a small cyclone, or per
haps a charge up San Juan HilL They played soldier with
the tops of garbage cans for shields and wooden sticks for
swords, and their favorite point of attack was likely to be the
shins of a busy clerk or stenographer. They were dead shots
with a beanshooter, and their most frequent target was the
shining bald head of one of the telegraph operators. On
occasion, outsiders suffered, too, as when Kermit hid behind
some bushes and threw mud on passing carriages.
I suppose it is only logical to say that the staff regarded
them as spoiled brats, but their mother seldom reprimanded
them, and never allowed them to be punished, because it
might retard the natural development of their personalities.
-57-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
Sometimes this built up in the staff a keen desire to indulge
in a little self-expression of our own.
One Sunday Ethel Roosevelt, who was then about twelve
years old, came into the offices swinging an inch-thick stick
that had been cut off a tree and trimmed. She walked up to
Jim Smithers, the chief telegrapher and telephone operator,
who was reading a newspaper and had his feet up on the
desk.
"Smithers," she said, "put up the tennis net for me."
He didn't care much for the way she said it and paid no
attention.
"Did you hear me?" she demanded.
Smithers said he was not permitted to leave his post.
"So you refuse?'*
Ethel raised the stick it had rough little knobs on it where
the branches had been trimmed and whammed Smithers
on the shins with all her strength, cutting his leg. Smithers
expressed his personality by grabbing her and turning her
across his lap, face down, and giving her a few lusty whacks
with his hand on the most available spot. She howled, and just
then Smithers looked up and saw T.R. standing in the door
way watching. The President walked over and grabbed Ethel
by the shoulder and put her out the door.
"Didn't I tell you/' he said, "never to come in these offices?"
He never said a word to Smithers, who called me into his
office to see the cut. Where a knob on the stick had dug into
his shin, a scar always remained.
Once when Archie was sick, his brothers decided that
something should be done to cheer him up. The best idea
-58-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
they could generate was that he would like to see his Shet
land pony. The White House stables were then about half
way down to the Potomac, and the boys were in the habit of
riding their spotted pony up to the yard, so nobody paid any
attention when they arrived on this occasion. They led the
pony in through the basement door and brought the elevator
down to that level. The docile beast entered with no diffi
culties, but, as I remember the incident, the elevator stuck
between floors on the way up to Archie's room. It took the
combined efforts of the Secret Service men and the ushers
to get them down and out again, and I, for one, always rather
regretted their failure. It was a good brotherly sentiment.
Almost everybody around the White House liked animals
in that period. The President had a little bulldog he was fond
of, but it had an overdeveloped sense of its own importance.
On one occasion it took a dislike to Ambassador Jusserand of
France, a frequent guest, and attacked him as he was leaving
the grounds. The newspapers reported that the dog had
chased the Ambassador up a tree, but I'm not sure that it
did more than tear one leg of his trousers which was msult
enough, because Jusserand was a dapper little Frenchman
with a trim Vandyke beard.
Anyway, the dog became something of a celebrity, and a
short tinie later one of the reporters wrote a story about how
it had been disgracefully licked by a stray cur that wandered
into the grounds. After reading the story, a man out in
Ohio sent T.R. a letter saying that he had shipped him a dog
that "can lick any dog in the world/* The animal arrived three
days later, and I opened the box and let him out. He im-
-59-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
mediately ran around the office sprinkling every desk and
the legs of most of the staff. I shoved him quickly out a
window and then went out and put a rope around his neck.
He was a strange-looking creature, with the long head of a
bull terrier, the shoulders of a bulldog, a short body, powerful
legs, and a short tail.
"Let's see him," the President said when I told him of the
gift. He gave the dog a long puzzled look, and asked:
"WhatTl we do with him?"
Jim Smithers, the chief telegrapher, asked for him and
got him. In collaboration with Bob Anderson, a tall, red
headed Negro messenger, the dog was matched in a number
of dog fights with sizable betting. The Ohio dog didn't fool
around about his fighting. He would feint the other dog out
of position, dive in, and clamp his teeth into the back of his
foe's neck and, with a mighty tug, hurl him over his shoulder.
The other dog was nearly always dead when he hit the
ground.
Of all the Roosevelt children, I felt that Quentin, who lost
his life as an aviator in World War I, was the most likable as
a child. He was a chubby little boy at that time, and he
collected autographs. I saved many signatures, including
those of foreign dignitaries, for him, until he finally decided
to give up the hobby. When he did give it up he was at
Oyster Bay, and he sent me his collector's book with a little
note saying that he w^s tired of it but he thought I might
want to carry on.
Alice was, of course, the most talked-about of the children.
But she was older and we didn't see much of her around
"Dear Mr. President . . "
the executive office. She and the Countess Cassini spent a
great deal of time shocking Washington society by smoking
and going unchaperoned. I must say she was a handsome
figure when she was dressed up in the smart clothes of that
day, which, as I remember, included a dashing broad-
brimmed hat tipped over one eye. Her wedding to Nicholas
Longworth was a newspaper sensation for days, and gifts,
including some rare snakes and a hogshead of popcorn,
poured into the White House from all over the United States
and from many foreign countries.
"Princess" Alice, as she was called, didn't get along
especially well with Mrs. Roosevelt, who was her step
mother. My sympathies were on Alice's side. One reason
was that I felt that Mrs. Roosevelt had a rather overbearing
attitude toward the staff in general and, as a result of one
incident, toward me in particular.
I played baseball in college and have always kept up with
the game. Several of us had a habit of playing catch on
the White House lawn during the luncheon hour in the
McKinley administration, and with the full approval of Mr.
McKinley. The first time we did it after T.R. came in, Mrs.
Roosevelt looked out the window and was shocked to see
young men with their coats off disporting themselves on Tier**
lawn. Mrs. Roosevelt called the office and told off Rudolph
Forster, the executive clerk, who assured her that it would
not happen again. She was not satisfied, however, and she
telegraphed to the President, who at the time was out in
Yellowstone National Park. T.R. replied that a reprimand
was being dispatched, but that still wasn't enough. Mrs.
-61-
"Dear Mr. President . . /'
Roosevejt felt that we ought to be deprived of our annual
leave. The President eventually agreed with her and issued
the order, but when the time came it was not enforced. We
didn't ever feel that T.R., in view of his own love of athletics,
took the offense very seriously.
Throughout his administration Mr. Roosevelt showed him
self to be a keen student of publicity and an able hand at em
ploying it to achieve his ends. He also enjoyed coining new
phrases and words, of which "Tread softly and carry a big
stick" was the most successful. Another that he used many
times was "nature fakirs," a term he aimed at journalist-
adventurers who wrote about impossible experiences with
wild animals or of incredible journeys in distant lands.
It was in the Roosevelt administration that the idea of
press conferences began to emerge, particularly after T.R.
had the executive-office wing added to the White House.
But even before the offices were moved from the second
floor he would occasionally talk to the reporters who were
waiting in our office for news or to buttonhole callers. This
custom did not start off with any appreciation of the im
portance that was to be attained by modern White House
press conferences, but T.R. soon realized the value of per
sonally giving the news to all the reporters at the same time,
and he made good use of the system to get his viewpoint
across to the public.
He would wait until there was some announcement to
hand out in typewritten form and then he would step into
the corridor and get the reporters together, explaining to
them his ideas on the subject. It was nothing like the give-
-62-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
and-take of today's press conferences. The President was a
man who didn't appreciate interruptions, and who sometimes
seemed to use his high position to talk down anyone who
disagreed with him. There were never any embarrassing
questions asked by reporters in those days.
There were no telephones for reporters, either, and when
ever news broke at the White House there would be a mad
scramble down the twisting stairway to the ground floor,
where the President's statement would be handed to waiting
bicycle messengers, who pedaled off furiously to the news
paper offices.
T.R. was impatient with many of the stereotyped methods
of government operation, and it was his custom to order
quick and drastic changes when they came to his attention.
During the period when he was Civil Service Commissioner
he came across the examination that was standard for persons
seeking jobs as mounted inspectors along the Rio Grande
River. The questions covered history, rhetoric, and mathe
matics, and Mr. Roosevelt disgustedly tore it up and wrote
a new set of questions himself. His questions covered such
problems as how to break a wild horse and how to han
dle a cow pony that had been turned loose to graze for six
months.
"You don't need to know algebra or the latitude of Zanzibar
for that job," he barked. "I'm only sorry I can't add to the
test a requirement that each applicant lasso, throw,, and tie a
steer in twenty seconds.'*
He also was one of the foremost advocates of simplified
spelling, using such words as nite, thot, tho, and thru in his
-63-
"Dear Mr. President . * /*
letters. Lots of people wrote in to encourage ids spelling
campaign, but there were plenty of complaints, too.
We developed a great fondness for Mr. Roosevelt, despite
tlie extra work lie piled on the staff, because he was always
fair and courteous and he worked even harder than we did.
When he left the White House it was typical that he should
call us together and make a little speech. It was always in
teresting to hear him speak, because he had a peculiar style
that was marked by long pauses between sentences or in the
middle of a sentence, after which he would rattle off a string
of staccato words like a burst from a machine gun. Frequently
they were surprising words, too.
"Gentlemen/* he said, when we had assembled, "I want to
express my earnest appreciation of the services that you have
rendered. . . .** A long pause while he gave us a friendly
big-tooth smile. "I have often thought you would have been
warranted in getting up a conspiracy to assassinate me be
cause of the way I have worked you!" Another pause. "I
wouldn't have blamed you at all. Now, I do not wish to leave
without having the pleasure of shaking hands with each of
you individually."
We were sorry to see him go, although we were not exactly
depressed by the departure of the rest of the family partic
ularly the kids. But we didn't realize that with T.R. went
an atmosphere that would never be wholly recaptured around
the White House. The feeling that we were one big family
was soon to end. We were getting too big almost too big for
our britches.
We didn't know that, however, when we first met Mr. Taf t.
-64-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
We didn't know how much. Mr. Taft enjoyed dancing and
social affairs, even though his great weight made his feet
hurt on such occasions. We didn't know about his love of
food, or how irritated he could become when forced to diet.
We were ignorant of a lot of things when the Taf ts moved in.
Why, we didn't even know that it was supposed to be Mrs.
Taft who really liked the idea of living in the White House
and who was largely responsible for her husband's succession
to T.R.
-65-
CHAPTER FIVE
VERY MAN HAS HIS SMALL TROUBLES, EVEN IF HE HAPPENS
[ to be President of the United States. Or should I say
especially if he is President of the United States?
I don't hesitate about saying it, because of the nine Presi
dents I've seen in action at the White House all have had
their personal woes, just as I've had mine. Now my trouble
is that I like to bet on the race horses. When it comes to
picking a winner in the fifth race at Havre de Grace, I'd
rather be right than President. It's been a lot of fun, but at
times it has meant a lot of trouble, too. Just like being
President
The troubles of William Howard Taf t, however, were not
the usual presidential woes that became familiar to me. One
of Mr. Taft's troubles was food. He loved it, and the more
food he could get, the more he loved it. The rub was that after
he moved into the White House, his doctor and Mrs. Taft
were constantly on the alert to enforce a diet that would get
rid of some of his surplus poundage. Mrs. Taft might reason
ably be described as a strong-minded woman. She took diet-
-66-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
ing seriously for the President and this led to a lot of talk
that in a less famous household might have been called
nagging.
The President dieted, all right, but not when he could
escape supervision. I remember once when I accompanied
him on a journey to Ohio. When we got on the train, leaving
the doctor and Mrs. Taft behind, the President began to
perk up. He also apparently began to think about food,
although it was then ten o'clock in the evening. Wilbur
Hinman, a stenographer, and I were in the observation sec
tion of Mr. Taft's special car going through telegrams and
letters when the President appeared at the door of his sitting
room. A pleasant smile turned the corners of his mouth. I
took one look and knew what was on his mind.
"Anybody seen the conductor?" he asked.
The conductor came a-running.
"The dining car . * ." Mr. Taft began shyly. "Could we
get a snack?"
The conductor looked surprised. "Why, Mr. President,
there isn't any dining car on this train/'
The President's sun-tanned face turned pink, with perhaps
a few splashes of purple. His normally prominent eyes seemed
to bulge.
"Norton!" he called in a cold voice. "Mr. Norton!"
Charles D. Norton, a tall, good-looking, and well-dressed
man, appeared from the next compartment. He was Mr.
Taff s secretary, and he probably had been given special in
structions by Mrs. Taft in regard to the President's diet on
the trip.
-67-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
"Mr. Norton/* the President said, "there is no diner on this
train."
Norton agreed that there was no diner. He reminded Mr.
Taft that they had had dinner at the White House, and
assured him that they would not go without breakfast He
recalled that the President's doctor had warned him about
eating between meals. The President brushed him aside,
turning back to the conductor.
"What's the next stop, dammit?" he asked. "The next stop
where there's a diner?"
The conductor believed that would be Harrisburg. Mr.
Taft glared at Norton and addressed the conductor:
"I am President of the United States, and I want a diner
attached to this train at Harrisburg. I want it well stocked
with food, including filet mignon. You see that we get a
diner/' He silenced the secretary's protests with a roar.
"What's the use of being President," he demanded, "if you
can't have a train with a diner on it?"
Norton gave up. The diner was attached at Harrisburg
in the middle of the night, and the President had the news
papermen advised that it was open to them. He sat in his own
car for a long time, partaking of refreshments. He seemed to
be in high good humor. Personally, I applauded him for his
humanness in kicking over the traces when he had the op
portunity.
The problem of food harassed Mr. Taft throughout his
administration, and I always felt that it added considerably
to his unhappiness with the high office he occupied. But it
was only one of his woes. He could have doubled Harry
-68-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
Truman in spades when the Missourian once remarked that
he hadn't ever wanted to be President.
Even inaugural day was a bad one for Mr. Taft. A heavy
rain that turned to sticky wet snow swept over Washington
and filled the streets with slush. A number of stands for
spectators had been built in front of the Treasury, the State
Department, and the White House, but only the White House
seats were covered. The storm stopped in the morning, but
conditions were so bad that few spectators wanted to sit in
the uncovered stands, and there was frantic bidding for
protected places in front of the White House.
Each member of the staff had been given four seats in
the covered stands, and I know that one clerk turned a neat
profit by calling at the expensive hotels until he found a
wealthy New York woman who paid $250 for his tickets.
Many persons who had come to Washington especially for
the inauguration did not even leave their hotels because of
the weather. The afternoon before the ceremonies, a man
bundled up in a huge fur coat drove his automobile up close
to the presidential stands and climbed up on the seat of the
car to wave a handful of currency at several of us who were
standing in the White House driveway.
"I'll pay a thousand dollars for four seats in these stands,"
he shouted.
I was tempted, but my knowledge of the Secret Service
objections to unidentified persons near the President con
vinced me that I should hold onto my tickets.
With the inauguration over, Mr. Taft took comparatively
little interest in the staff except to make it clear that the fewer
-69-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
matters there were requiring his personal attention, the better
he would like it. He didn't read letters if he could avoid it,
and only the most important ones ever reached him. Even
these were hriefed so he could get through them quickly.
I do not mean that Mr. Taf t neglected the duties of his office,
but his great interest was in the law courts (where he served
so brilliantly) and he was not attracted to many of the
routine details of life in the White House. It was also a rel
atively quiet period in history, and his inclination was to let
uninteresting matters slide along. In many cases this gave the
impression that he was discourteous, if I may state the facts
mildly.
There were times when the waiting room and the office
of his secretary Fred Carpenter was the first one would
become overcrowded with visitors while the President pro
longed a conversation with some friend whom he particularly
enjoyed. Carpenter would fuss and fret and tender apologies
to important but stranded callers, and occasionally he would
appear at the door of Mr. Taft's office to remind him that
visitors with definite appointments were waiting. Often he
was ignored.
Naturally, many callers became incensed, and a consider
able number of them were important political figures in their
own localities. Some men who had traveled a long distance
to see the President would be kept waiting for several days.
Frequently they went home in disgust without ever getting
into Mr. Taft's office.
Politicians were not the only ones kept waiting outside
Mr. Taf t's door. I recall one occasion when a group from the
Metropolitan Opera was appearing in Washington and it was
-70-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
arranged for them to visit the President. They were an un
usual group in those days, predominantly foreigners and
predominantly long on temperament and short on funds. The
male members of the group wore rather shiny blue suits and
appeared to have gone too long without a haircut. The
women were perhaps better dressed, but they blended into
a nondescript off-stage picture as they took chairs in the
lobby of the executive office to await Mr. Taff s pleasure.
They waited quite a while, patiently and with a quiet
acceptance of delay that contrasted with the irritability of
most American callers, who expected punctuality even from
the head of the state. I noticed in particular one placid
woman with a broad, pleasant face. There was something
very familiar and very warm about her, but I couldn't seem
to get it straight in my mind.
After half an hour of waiting there was a flurry at the
main door, where a handsome limousine with a liveried
chauffeur had drawn up. Then in swept Mary Garden,
glistening with jewels, draped in furs and satin and looking
like a million dollars. Escorted by Senator Frelinghuysen, she
walked straight to the President's office and the door closed
behind her leaving the rest of the Opera group sitting just
where they were. Miss Garden reappeared and departed in
another sunburst of glamour about thirty minutes later and
then the others were shown into Mr. Taft's office to shake
hands.
When they came out, I again noticed the pleasant, broad-
browed woman and I nudged one of the clerks as she passed.
"She looks familiar," I said. "Who is she?"
He smiled cynically. "Oh, nobody much,'* he said with
"Dear Mr. President , . .**
broad sarcasm, "Just the greatest singer alive Madame
Schumann-Heinle. No glamour."
Now I do not presume to suggest that these incidents were
the result of intentional rudeness on the part of the President.
But it was obvious on various occasions that, for one reason
or another, Mr. Taf t passed up opportunities to make friends
and influence people, particularly those on the White House
staff. It had been customary, for instance, for the President
to give each of the White House employees a Christmas gift.
Mr. McKinley gave each member of the staff a photograph or
a book. Theodore Roosevelt gave each clerk a $5 gold piece,
and each policeman and messenger got a turkey.
When this custom was brought to Mr. Taf t*s attention at
the proper time, he remarked: "I don't see why I should have
to give them anything/' And he didn't, so far as the clerical
staff was concerned. And after all, why should he?
The President enjoyed playing golf, and on a sunny after
noon he might break all appointments on short notice and
take off for the links with several friends. If this meant putting
off the call of some political bigwig or delaying the date on
which he received an ambassador, it did not appear to bother
the President unduly. Nor did it impress him that the staff
was often forced to sit idly awaiting his return from the golf
links or from a late afternoon automobile ride in order to
wind up the business of the day and get home, perhaps at
9 P.M., to a cold dinner.
These conditions were particularly acute during the first
part of Mr. Taft's administration. Eventually, the President's
political advisers began to worry about the unfavorable re
action that had set in among disgruntled politicians. Some of
-72-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
them blamed Carpenter, a mild but pleasant man wliom
Mr. Taft had brought to the White House when he was in
augurated. I never felt that Carpenter was particularly at
fault, except that he always wanted to please the President
and thus was ineffective in trying to correct the situation that
had arisen.
In any even, the advisers decided that a new secretary was
essential, and they wanted a "live wire" who could put the
pieces together again and bring some order into the White
House routine. They decided their man was Charles D. Nor
ton, an up-and-coming man who was then Assistant Secretary
of the Treasury. I think all of us were ready to welcome any
change, believing it could only be for the better, but we
didn't know what was in store for us.
Norton had a reputation for doing three things at once,
and he also had the energy and the boldness to try to live up
to that reputation, sometimes with strange results. He was
the first modern efficiency expert I had ever seen in action,
and I'm afraid that my reaction was to wish for a return to
the catch-as-catch-can days of the gay nineties. His first
move was to advise us that he wanted men with brains and
a college background on die staff. He didn't inquire whether
any of us had either, but it was clear that there was to be a
housecleaning.
Now I have nothing against efficiency or bustle or brains,
but I don't like to overdo any of them, and I feel that a fellow's
morale may be improved by an occasional week-end fishing
trip down the Potomac. Under Norton's supervision it was
clear that I wasn't going to be called upon to do much re
laxing. My working hours increased from 7:30 in the morning
-73-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
to 6 in the evening, and after dinner from 9 to midnight. In
winter I never saw my wife or baby in daylight except on
Sunday, when I only worked from 9:30 A.M. to 3 P.M. In order
to speed things up, Norton presented me with ten little
rubber stamps that were to be used for letters which I for
warded to the various departments. The dates had to be
changed each day with a pair of tweezers, and it was so much
quicker to write the name of the department on each letter
that I never used them.
Norton took an immediate dislike to Wendell Mischler,
who was Mr. Taft's personal stenographer. He dictated
Mischler s resignation to Mischler, told him to "sign it and
give it to me."
Mischler said he would do nothing of the sort. He walked
out, and for the next two weeks he tried to get to see the
President Several times he went to the front door of the
White House after Mr. Taf t left his office, but Norton had
apparently given orders for him to be refused admittance
even though he was a personal friend of Mrs. Taft.
Finally, A. I. Vorhys, Republican national committeeman
from Ohio, came to see the President and Mischler told him
his story.
"Come with me/' Vorhys said, adding a few choice bits of
profanity. Norton tried to stop them when they got to the
door of the President's office, but Vorhys shoved him aside
and they walked in. Vorhys explained the situation.
"Is this your wish, Mr. President?" he asked.
Mr. Taft looked at him in surprise and replied: "Why,
Mischler is the last man I would want to see go."
Needless to say, this sort of thing did not make Norton
-74-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
popular in the office. Since I read all his mail, it would have
been almost impossible for me not to have known his busi
ness pretty thoroughly, especially his financial affairs, and it
wasn't difficult either to learn of long-distance conversations
through the switchboard operators. He had been associated
with a large life insurance company before coming to the
White House, and he was still receiving large sums in com
missions from past sales. He was interested in a South Ameri
can bond issue in which some powerful financiers were lend
ing a hand. When a man is unpopular with his office force,
he is usually watched, but there was nothing unethical in
Mr. Norton's operations. It is well known that many promi
nent persons come into government service at a small salary
because they are considered valuable material for the partic
ular job, and they continue their outside interests with full
official approval
While the South American negotiations were in progress,
Norton warned all of us, "This is strictly confidential, and if
any word of it gets out I will find out who did it and fire the
guilty person/* Since we had been handling confidential
matters for years without any leaks, we naturally resented
this attitude, and Arthur Leonard, one of the office corre
spondents, told Norton, "I don't know -whether I want to
work here any longer/*
As a matter of fact, this story did leak out, but not through
our office. Bob Small, a reporter for the New York Stm, wrote
it prior to any announcement, and Norton was furious,
"Your paper will fire you for that," te told Small. "They
won't stand for such inaccuracies/*
*TH bet you a dinner for all the correspondents that I am
-75-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
correct and that I'm not fired/ 3 Small replied. Norton, to keep
up his bluff, had to take the bet, and later paid off at a dinner
that Mr. Taf t attended.
By this time Norton apparently had decided to fire me.
He brought in W. Stoddard, an editor of the Youth's Com
panion, to study my job, but after two months Stoddard gave
up in disgust and left, telling Norton that I didn't need any
"editorial" help.
A little later I was in the office early one morning and just
happened to glance through a stack of letters on Norton's
desk. They showed that he had arranged for an increase in
his own salary and in certain others, but had decided not to
give me a promotion and a raise that I had been promised
sometime before. I made up my mind then to have it out
with him. When he came to work, I went into his office and
demanded an explanation. He refused to talk about it and
tried to send me back to my desk. I didn't go. A couple of
Senators came by to see the President and I stood there until
they had gone in and then I resumed my prodding of Norton.
Other visitors came, but I just waited until they left and
kept insisting on an answer. Norton became very angry, but
not angry enough to carry out his threats to fire me.
There was a reason for this. The Cleveland Economy Com
mittee, which was appointed by Mr. Taf t, had been making
a thorough investigation of the executive branch of the
Government The committee had given my particular job a
high rating, but there was still some question about their
over-all recommendations. One of the committee members,
M. O. Chance, came to my defense when he learned of my
-76-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
difficulties with Norton, and after he had talked with the
secretary, my position became less uncertain, although I did
not get my promotion until sometime later.
Soon after this it was announced that Norton was resign
ing from the government post to become a vice-president of
a big New York bank. He left without a formal farewell to
the staff, but some of us knew when he was going and we
managed to gather near the door. As he went out, we
hummed the Doxology.
I explain the Norton episode in some detail not so much
because of my personal feelingsalthough they were bitter
at the timebut because it was a turning point in the evolu
tion of the White House staff. The small, intimate group
that had previously gathered devotedly around the President
and had considered itself on familiar terms with him was
never completely restored. This was not entirely a result of
Norton's operations, although they delineated the change.
The fact was that the office of die Presidency was becoming
too big and too busy to permit continuance of the old set-up.
Somewhere in Taf t's administration the one-big-family atmos
phere faded out, and when Woodrow Wilson became Presi
dent, the times had changed and we were in a busy office
that had little chance for byplay, gossip, or an occasional
game of craps in the basement.
Charles Hilles, who succeeded Norton, was a remarkable
man, and no secretary could have been more thoughtful of
the staff. We liked him and worked hard for him, but we had
been through a bad year and we couldn't swing back into
the old pace. After Norton, I never called the secretaries by
-77-
"Dear Mr. President , . ."
their first names in the office although some of them I knew
well and addressed familiarly outside the White House.
One day the Secret Service came around and showed me
a couple of letters that had been passed on to them by Mrs.
Taft's secretary. They were addressed to the President's
daughter, Helen, and were signed by a mail we will call Jones
and who lived in Kentucky. He had aever seen Helen Taf t,
but he had been reading stories about her in the newspapei j
and had come to the cockeyed conclusion that they were
engaged to be married. The letters were written in respectful
if endearing terms. The only thing wrong with them was that
Jones assumed that Helen was in love with him and making
wedding preparations. He added that he wanted to come to
Washington to see her soon.
I took a good look at the handwriting and said I would
watch for any future letters and hold them out of the family's
personal mail. Another one arrived a few days later, saying
Jones would be in Washington to see his "fiancee." I sent it
over to the Secret Service, and not long afterward they picked
up a sandy-haired, freckled little man at the White House
door and brought him over to the office. It was Jones, aU
right. He was the most inoffensive fellow you could imagine.
He was thin and not very tall, and there was a rather con
fused look on his face, but nothing else to suggest that he
was unbalanced. He merely wanted to discuss wedding plans
with his "fiancee." I pointed out to him that he had never
seen Miss Taft, and that his attempts to see her were em
barrassing, but he insisted that she knew all about their
engagement.
-78-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
"Just let me see her/* he kept saying earnestly. "She knows
how we love each other. She will tell you."
We got in touch with his relatives in Kentucky and found
out that he was a man of some wealth. His relatives ap
parently didn't want to offend him, but they promised to see
that he ceased writing to the White House. Either he was too
smart for them or they were timid, because he made another
trip to Washington, and again was sent home. His letters
kept coming, and I noticed that one of them said he was
sending Helen a pledge of their "engagement."
Some days later a small package arrived from a town in
Ohio. It had been damaged in transit and the post office in
sisted that I open it and sign a receipt. It contained a diamond
ring worth perhaps a couple of hundred dollars, but there
was nothing to identify the sender. It was addressed to Helen
and I sent it along to her. Then I got to thinking about
Jones's promise of a pledge and I had it returned to me.
The handwriting was that of Jones; he had tried to fool us by
going over into Ohio to mail the package from an unfamiliar
address. This time the Secret Service put on the pressure, and
the family ended Jones's inclination to throw his money
around by taking legal action to have him put away.
Meanwhile my mother had come East, and we lived in the
little town of Falls Church, Virginia, about an hour's trolley
ride from the White House. Washington was a slow and
sleepy place in those days. Rubber-tired carriages rolled
sedately along streets where the only noise was the clop of
horses* hoofs, the infrequent rumble of a streetcar, or the
clatter of a beer truck.
-79-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
There were no movies, but there were plenty of bars with
their free-lunch counters well stocked. For a quart of beer
costing 5 cents you could get an excellent meal of boiled
eggs, ham, cheese, and other delicacies. There was a custom
in the better Washington hotels at that time that on Christmas
the first drink was on the house. The usual drink was Tom
and Jerry. The young blades of the town, always dressed in
correct formal morning clothes, made the rounds of the
hotels on Christmas morning, accumulating a sizable binge
for free. This was considered a smart thing to do in those
days, just as on Easter it was the smart thing to parade
and watch the parade on Connecticut Avenue.
I may have preferred the Christmas custom at the time,
but now I recall the Easter parade more clearly, perhaps
for obvious reasons, I didn't take any great part in social
affairs in those days, but there was a girl who lived in Falls
Church whom I took to. I squired her around a bit, and she
was much better than I at identifying the prominent Easter
paraders. There were so many plumes waving around and
so many handsome carriages on those occasions that I
had only a vague notion of who was who. In fact, the pro
fusion of plumes on ladies' hats in those days was quite a
problem at the White House receptions, because they all
removed their hats when they arrived and about a thousand
hatboxes were needed as a regular thing.
Well, the girl was interested in such goings-on, so I took
an interest in them too, and for a while I was spending less
time at the bowling alley and more time on the road between
my house and hers in Falls Church. This old Revolutionary
-80-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
town had an East End and a West End, which, were about
a mile and a half apart, and of course she lived at one end
and I lived at the other, so that it sometimes seemed to me
I was spending all my time walking that mile and a half in
the evenings. This was almost too much exercise for me, and
I didn't waste a lot of time before I began getting on the
subject of wedding bells.
It was along about this time that I had an amusing ex
perience, although at the time I didn't think it was funny.
I don't suppose I did anything in particular to keep my
fiancee from being impressed by the fact that I worked at the
White House. One evening after we had become engaged,
she came by the office when I was working late and ex
pressed a desire to see the desk at which President Taf t did
his work. I told her that I could arrange it with no trouble
at all. Then I checked around and found that everyone else
had left the executive offices and I boldly led her into the
President's working room.
She seemed sufficiently impressed by my influence, so I
showed her around, pointing out pictures and ornaments of
interest. In one corner there was a huge vase of roses, and
I decided to give her one of them as a memento. When I tried
to pull one out, the whole vase tumbled to the floor, spilling
water on a pile of army commissions that the President had
already signed and how he hated the tiresome task of sign
ing them!
I got the vase and the flowers back where they belonged
and wiped up the floor, but when I took a good look at the
stack of commissions I knew they were ruined. I thought
-81-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
maybe I was ruined too, because in view of the trouble I had
been having with Norton it seemed likely that he would be
happy to fire me if he discovered my misadventure at night
in the President's office. I was plenty worried.
I removed the commissions and hid them in my desk. Then
the next morning I called up the department and told them to
send over duplicates. When they arrived, I merely sneaked
them in with others that had come in for the President's
signature, and nobody ever knew the difference. Poor Mr.
Taft! He had to sign a big stack of commissions twice, but
he still had me.
During the Taft administration we began to improve
further the method of handling the presidential mail,
especially to reduce the number of original letters that the
President had to read and to save his having to read many
newspapers. The method I worked out was to lay the mail
out in piles, according to subject and importance, as it was
being opened. Then when the opening and the reading were
completed, I typed a brief of the important letters and made
a list of the subjects and of the names of the writers. This
list I sent to the President, and then I turned the actual
letters over to his secretaries for acknowledgment or
reply.
This meant that the President saw a list of perhaps sixty
letters written to him, with the name and the home town of
each writer and a brief description of the contents of the
letter. He could quickly run through the list and familiarize
himself with the correspondence in a general way, and then
he could read in full any letters of particular interest to him.
-82-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
I still have some of these summaries and I note the following
in the list of September 28, 1910, as examples:
E. L. sends the President copies and originals of some old letters
written to and by members of Lincoln's Cabinet. She also asks for
the clerkship.
Solon Philbrick recommends A. K. Vickers to Supreme Court.
W. MacD. wants a job. Has been in real estate.
I. J. G. writes a would-be humorous letter of advice.
J. H. B. of Cincinnati hopes that his sister-in-law, in the Census
Bureau, will be promoted.
S. K. H. of Middletown wishes the President had listened to
his political advice given some time ago. Thinks the President is
in a bad way.
P. S. Bullen, American representative of the London Daily
Telegraph, wants the President to send a message by a proposed
airship voyage to King George. The airship leaves Atlantic City
shortly for England. Although Walter Wellman is to be on board,
the writer thinks that the trip will be a success.
Mrs. O. of Bridgeport, Conn., wants to know if the President
was in the White House between Sept 1st and 15th. The husband
of her niece claims that he was introduced to the President in the
Blue Room sometime during that period. She thinks that the man
is a liar and that he has squandered his mother-in-law's money as
well.
An old ex-slave, now blind and poor, sends in his bill of sale
because his old master once said: "These might some day be of
use to you. He wants help; doesn't specify what.
In addition to this daily summary I compiled the so-called
"yellow journal," which was made up of long sheets of paper
on which were pasted news articles and editorials that might
be of interest to the President, thus relieving him of the
necessity of plowing through the various newspapers. I also
kept a ledger in which I recorded the letters that were f or-
-83-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
warded to the various governmental departments for answer
and in this administration I took over the handling of all
packages and periodicals. My job, which had started out on
a small scale, was becoming so big that it kept me working
many times until far into the night.
Another thing that added to my work in those days was
the picture-post-card craze. This actually began back in
the McKinley administration when Americans traveling in
Europe began sending back post cards to friends in the
United States. The President, of course, received a great
many of the most elaborate cards, and some of them were
really works of art. Lots of them, however, were crude affairs
something like a cartoon. The craze rapidly spread and we
received them from all over this country as well as from
abroad.
Persons who sent post cards in those days, however, seemed
to have no more to say than persons who send post cards
today, so that the messages scribbled on them were of
secondary importance, to say the least. As a result no one at
the White House was much interested in the fact that Cousin
Sue "wishes ayou were here," and we tossed them aside for
the most part. I used to have a krge box in which I dropped
such cards, and eventually it occurred to me that they might
be a valuable collection after a number of years. I kept on
saving them until one day I examined the box, which was in
the basement, and discovered that mice had eaten away
what might have been a rich cache.
After Franklin Roosevelt came to the White House, in
cidentally, all picture post cards and greeting cards except
-84-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
those from personal friends were stored away and later sent
to children's hospitals, where the children cut out the pic
tures to paste into scrapbooks as a part of the therapeutic
treatment.
Mrs. Taft was one of the women for whom the White
House proved disappointing. She was able and ambitious,
with a keen knowledge of political methods. Her husband's
inclination was toward the law courts, but Mrs. Taft had her
eyes on the White House. She arrived, therefore, as a "power
behind the throne/* and she seemed to take that responsibility
very earnestly. The Tafts loved to entertain, but within a
year or so Mrs. Taft was stricken by an illness that affected
her speech, and she was forced to curtail her activities.
One of the most talked-about affairs given by the Tafts was
in celebration of their silver-wedding anniversary. Prepara
tions for the party, which was to be held on the White House
lawn, were discussed in great detail in the newspapers, and
there was some feeling that the occasion was being overdone.
Gifts came in from all over the world, many famous person
ages sending tokens of their esteem.
I have a list of the silver gifts from this country alone that
covers twenty-one typewritten pages, and records more than
three hundred doners, who sent items ranging from um
brella handles to elaborate tea sets. When everything was
counted up, the gifts included 131 silver dishes and bowls,
and almost as many vases and pickle forks. It seemed un
likely the Tafts would be able to make use of all of them, but
they made a wonderful display of gleaming silver.
The lawn party was lavish, with a banquet that included
-85-
Mr. President . . /*
$500 worth of the President's favorite filet mignon. Five
hundred dollars bought a lot of steak in those days. The
Marine Band furnished music, and everybody had a wonder
ful time, especially the President.
The Tafts were probably the most brilliant and lavish
entertainers, but of course every administration has had its
gay parties at the White House. There were, normally, four
regular receptions the diplomatic, judicial, Army and Navy,
and Congressional each winter season. Before World War I
these were brilliant affairs, especially the diplomatic re
ception, where there was a lavish display of gold braid,
ribbons, decorations, and jewels.
In the old days, a large amount of food and liquor was
served at receptions, all of it paid for out of the President's
private purse. This became quite a drain on finances because
of a large number of gate-crashers. In Mr. Taft's day, Con
gressmen especially took advantage of the occasion to bring
along their political friends and guests to see the show. The
ushers had orders not to admit persons without individual
invitations, but of course they were not going to turn away
a Congressman's half-dozen extras. There might be 2000 or
3000 persons at these receptions, a considerable part of them
uninvited, but all of them eating heartily.
Lavish entertaining of this sort was suspended during
World War I and as Washington's official family grew, was
never resumed on the same scale. The Franklin Roosevelts
did some large-scale entertaining for a while, but without
the huge amounts of food and drink.
Invitations to White House affairs were usually prepared
-86-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
by several expert penmen, who during the social seasons
worked at nothing but filling in names of guests on engraved
invitations to teas, garden parties, dinners, and receptions.
This was done so skillfully that the guest's name appeared
to be part of the engraving and it was difficult to tell that it
had been written in by hand. For many years reception
invitations were delivered by messenger, but as the list of
eligibles grew it became necessary to resort to the mails, and
this intimate touch became a thing of the past.
At one time, these arrangements were under direction of
Colonel Crook, the disbursing officer, who was extremely
meticulous and watched everything that went out from the
White House with an eagle eye. One young social secretary,
who was also an expert penman, made up a special invitation
that he altered slightly to make it read that a reception would
be "helT at the "White Horse." This was placed with the
regular invitations so that Crook would believe the engravers
had made the error in all the cards. The result was a near
case of apoplexy until the Colonel was finally convinced it
was a joke.
Near the end of his term, Mr. Taft was thoroughly dis
gusted with the manner in which the President had to put
up with a horde of office-seekers. He also was dismayed as a
result of his split with Theodore Roosevelt, which he seemed
never to understand and which he always sought to heal.
During the 1912 campaign he became more and more dis
couraged, until the morning after election disclosed that he
was third in a three-cornered race, winning the electoral votes
of only Vermont and Utah. Then, of all times, he perked up.
-87-
"Dear Mr. President . . !*
He was both more tranquil and more jovial than at any
other time he was in the White House. The strain semed to
be lifted from him.
One day he sat down and wrote a pleasant letter to the
man who would take his place a letter that seems almost im
possible in these days when a President is in contant danger
of going broke on what was a $75,000-a-year salary.
"You will find/* he wrote to Woodrow Wilson, "that Con
gress is very generous to the President. You have all your
transportation paid for, and all servants in the White House
except such valet and maid as you and Mrs. Wilson choose to
employ. Your flowers for entertainments and otherwise are
furnished from the conservatory and if they are not sufficient
there is an appropriation from which they add to the supply.
Music for all your entertainments is always at hand by the
Marine Band. Provision is made by which, when you leave in
the summer, you may, at government expense, take such of
the household as you need to your summer home and the
expense of their travel and living is met under the ap
propriation.
"Your laundry is looked after in the White House, both
when you are here and when you are away. All together,
you can calculate that your expenses are only those of
furnishing food to a large boarding house of servants and to
your family, and your own personal expenses of clothing,
etc. This, of course, makes the salary of $75,000, with $25,000
for traveling expenses, very much more than is generally
supposed.
"I have been able to save from my four years $100,000.
"Dear Mr. President . . "
I give you these personal details as I would have liked the
same kind of information when I came in."
Even up to the day he left, however, Mr. Taft failed to
show any particular interest in the White House staff-- not
even the casual but warm friendliness that he showed me a
few years later when I met him by chance in the park. On the
final day, we were all told that we were to assemble at
II A.M. to say good-by to the President We did. It was
typical that he had other things to do and kept us waiting
until 5 P.M. When we finally filed into his office he stood up
and let his eyes range over us with deliberation, almost as if
he didn't know us as perhaps he didn't. His cheeks puffed
out, and he exclaimed:
"Well! I didn't know there were so many of you. . . . Good
day!"
He carefully put on his hat and walked out of the executive
offices for keeps.
Woodrow Wilson brought an entirely changed atmosphere
into the White House. Whereas Mr. Taft had frequently
fallen asleep in the middle of the day's business at his desk,
at a public affair, or while signing commissions the new
President was intense, alert, and always on the job.
-89 -
CHAPTER SIX
T A TOODROW WILSON HADN'T BEEN IN THE WHITE HOUSE A
* * week before a plot was being hatched against him in
the executive offices. It was a friendly plot, however, and the
idea was to keep him from wasting his time on routine work
that somebody else could handle.
I don't want to give the impression that Mr. Wilson was
a slave to his desk, because he wasn't at least not in those
days. Although energetic and businesslike, he believed a man
needed a certain amount of intellectual recreation, and he
didn't let the job of being President crowd other things out of
his life. But at first he found it difficult to adjust himself to
the complicated and confusing machinery of the White
House offices. He brought into his private office an old-
fashioned Hammond typewriter, which had an unorthodox
keyboard and made a peculiarly disagreeable tapping noise
when he used it He would walk past a secretary's desk, notice
an unanswered letter or a document, and carry it back to his
office. We were likely to find him later sitting at his typewriter
pecking away at an answer or a memorandum that should
-90-
"Dear Mr. President . . I 9
have been handled by the secretary without any reference
to the President.
He knew shorthand, and frequently made his own notes
during conversations and transcribed them later, although he
needed only to press a button to have such work done by an
expert stenographer. After a while we began hiding papers
of secondary importance from him and avoiding reference
in his presence to a great many matters that could be handled
by the staff. I think he soon caught onto our conspiracy, but
he took it smilingly and without comment. Mr. Wilson took
a number of things without comment during the years he was
in the White House, but not all of them with a smile. Some
times he was a very stubborn man. He was also the first
Democratic President since I had begun handling the White
House mail, and I was not sure at first that I could hang
onto my job. But I did.
As we got to know the President better we were more and
more impressed by his coldly logical mind and by his de
termination. Mr. Wilson, like Theodore Roosevelt, had to
run the whole show himself. He could not work with men
who disagreed with him on important matters and he got
rid of them even Colonel House eventually whether they
were clerks or Cabinet members.
Perhaps the most interesting instance was that of William
Jennings Bryan, who . disagreed with Mr. Wilson's policy
regarding war with Germany. Bryan was an almost unbeliev
able character as Secretary of State, a man who was, I
thought, far beyond his depth in that job even with the Presi
dent himself handling all important matters*
-91-
Mr. President . . ."
I remember the first time I saw Bryan was at a political
rally in Ohio when he was running for the Presidency. I
listened to his speech as if every word and every gesture
were a revelation. It is not my nature to be awed by a famous
name, but I felt that Bryan was the first politician I had ever
heard speak the truth and nothing but the truth. I went away
convinced that he should be President It was the next day
before I began to react I read the speech in the newspaper,
and I disagreed with almost all of it when I saw it in print.
I finally decided that I had fallen under the spell of the most
remarkable orator of the century, which I still believe to be
correct. If Bryan could have made a radio speech on election
eve and every voter had been forced to listen, I think he
would have won in a walk. Fortunately, there were no radios
in those days, and history got one more lucky break.
It was after Bryan became Secretary of State that I ob
served how shallow he really was as a statesman. He would
stride into our offices, a smile on his wile lips, and go in to
see the President usually to discuss petty political affairs
instead of the state of foreign affairs, which were rapidly
heading for a grave crisis. He scribbled memoranda to the
President on scraps of paper, which he sealed in envelopes
and sent to our office. I remember a typical one, written in
pencil on the back of an old envelope, that said so-and-so
"deserves appointment in the Postal Service because he will
be able to influence a large number of voters in his com
munity/* This was at a time when war was raging in Europe
and we were almost in it. Bryan was out when we did get in.
The fact that Mr. Wilson insisted on running a one-man
-92-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
show did not mean that he was intolerant of the opinion of
others. His methods were well illustrated by one interview
he had with a group of Congressmen soon after he became
President. I was in his office when the delegation arrived,
smiling and enthusiastic about some legislation for which
they were seeking Mr. Wilson's support. The President ap
parently knew nothing about the legislation and very little
about the subject, but he listened attentively until they had
finished and then he walked around to stand before them.
He began asking questions that were direct and squarely
on the target. He pulled no punches and paid no heed to
political angles. The Congressmen answered, sometimes
hesitantly and sometimes squirmingly. Mr. Wilson reminded
me of nothing so much as a skilled, nerveless surgeon using
a knife with scientific precision. Quickly and logically, he
demolished their carefully prepared argument, and although
they were crestfallen when they departed, they were in no
position to disagree with him.
In contrast to the President was his jovial, political-minded
secretary, Joseph Tumulty. It was Tumulty who kept the
place alive and moving, and sometimes in turmoil, especially
when he was scouring the various branches of government
to find jobs for his friends. With a fellow like Tumulty, that
meant a lot of jobs.
He loved a practical joke, and frequently the staff suffered
the consequences. One clerk, who became irritated by a
women's-suffrage parade in front of the White House, was
arrested because he seized a placard and tore it up. Tumulty,
willing to see others go to any length for a joke, refused to
QQ
\/\j
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
answer Ms telephone calls from the police station and let
Mm languish in jail all day before he finally identified Mm
and secured his release. There was a lot of laughter around
the office that day about Charley sitting down there in a cell.
Tumulty loved to tell stories in dialect, and to call a friend
on the telephone and imitate someone's voice. Once he Md a
bottle of whisky in the handbag of one of the clerks who was
about to leave for the day, and then accused Mm of trying
to steal WMte House property. They got into a long and loud
argument in the middle of the offices as Tumulty demanded
that the clerk open the bag and the clerk refused. Every
body finally caught on that it was just a gag, and it was a lot
of fun until Tumulty discovered the clerk had walked off
with his own bottle of whisky!
I always had a warm spot in my heart for Tumulty because
of Ms attitude toward an incident that involved me directly.
One day Senator Ollie James of Kentucky came by the office
and gave us what he said was a red-hot tip on the next day's
races. He also advised us that if we went to a certain tavern
on the road to Baltimore we could get better odds than else
where. The next day was Saturday, and Clarence Hess and
I went down to the tavern on the interurban, and not only
did we get good odds, but the horse James had touted won.
We then bet on the next race, but about that time the
telegraph wire bringing in the results failed and we were told
to come in the next day to collect, in case we had picked a
winner. The next morning I saw in the newspaper that my
horse had won, so I went down to collect and to try to pick
another one.
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
While I was there the place was raided by the police, who
had a long string of streetcars lined tip outside and took
everybody to the Annapolis jail, where we were held as
witnesses. "Everybody" included a number of Congressmen
and some more or less important government officials. The
telephone rang like mad all night as nervous politicians sum
moned help and bondsmen. When we got out on bail the
next day, I noticed with anxiety that my name, but not any
reference to the White House, was in the newspapers in
connection with the raid. I rather expected Tumulty to be
concerned about it when I went back to work, but he didn't
say a word. He just grinned at me, and I knew that he was
aware of what had happened but wasn't going to do any
thing about it.
Soon after Mr. Wilson became President I began to notice
his correspondence with Mrs. Mary Hulbert Peck, which
eventually became a choice item with the rumormongers of
the day. The President had become acquainted with her
sometime before, and had visited her home in Bermuda. He
wrote to her occasionally perhaps once every two months-
after he came to the White House. The first letter from Mrs.
Peck was opened in my office, and I read it and sent it on to
the President. It was obvious that they were personal friends,
and as other letters arrived I merely glanced through them at
first to be sure there was nothing for the office to handle.
Later I sent them to the President unopened, although he
never suggested that I do so.
Soon rumors began to spread about a romance between
Mr. Wilson and Mrs. Peck, and eventually some of the news-
-95-
Mr. President . . ."
papers began to take note of the rumors, hinting that the
President had gone to Bermuda especially to see her. Mrs.
Wilson was ill at the time, and the gossip became so wide
spread that her pastor, the Reverend Dr. Beach of Princeton,
N.J., finally wrote to the President Addressing him as "Dear
Woodrow," Dr. Beach called attention to the rumors and
asked the President's permission to refute publicly such
scandalous talk.
The President's well-known stubborn streak, however,
stopped any such public statement He replied pleasantly
but firmly that the rumors were ridiculous and that it was
beneath his dignity to pay any attention to them. He didn't,
either, and neither the letter from Dr. Beach nor the Presi
dent's reply was ever made public, so far as I know.
There was no doubt in my own mind that the friendship
between Mrs. Peck and the President was on a purely in
tellectual level There was unquestionably a congenial and
happy meeting of minds in their correspondence, but not
only could Mrs. Peck's letters have been read by Mrs. Wilson,
they probably were. The gossip finally died out for lack of
fuel, but it was typical of the President that he ignored it all
along and kept on corresponding with Mrs. Peck.
During the Wilson administration when the President's
daughter Jessie was to be married, there were, of course,
many articles about and pictures of the bride in the news
papers. There were also many wedding gifts coining into the
White House, but the most unusual one was an expensive
monogrammed silver service. It was addressed to the bride,
but there was no indication of the sender's identity. It was,
-96-
Mr. President . . /*
however, accompanied by a gold card on which was engraved
the statement: "To the most lovable girl in the world/*
The gift was a great mystery to the President's household.
Then one day I got a letter from a woman who had g com
plaint. She said that her husband had fallen in love with
Miss Wilson's photograph and had taken all of their savings,
which amounted to about $600, in order to send a wedding
present The wife had nothing against Miss Wilson, and in
fact wished her great happiness, but she did need the money
and wanted us to do something about it The husband ap
parently didn't want anything except to send a gift to the
bride. We connected the letter up with the mystery gift, and
the silver service was returned to the shop from which it
came, but I don't know whether the wife ever got her money
back
The Wilson household ran smoothly and pleasantly in the
beginning, with the first Mrs. Wilson devoting herself to
making everything as easy as possible for her husband. The
President completely dominated their home life, in a sedate
and kindly manner. He did not let the burden of high office
monopolize his attention, but spent a good part of his time
with his family, often reading aloud to them in the evenings.
There were those who believed that Mrs. Wilson's opposi
tion to the marriage of their daughter Eleanor to William G.
McAdoo contributed to the illness that preceded her death
after a year and a half in the White House. McAdoo was then
Secretary of the Treasury and was much older than Eleanor,
although he retained a youthful zest and enthusiasm. After
Mrs. Wilson's death the President seemed to lose some
-97-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
of his sprightliness until lie met and fell in love with Mrs.
Edith Gait. Against the wishes of his advisers, he announced
their engagement on October 6, 1915.
The announcement, which the President refused to delay
until after the 1916 election campaign, brought lots of mail
to the White House, but Mr. Wilson was not interested. He
was too much in love. There were many letters expressing
indignation or disappointment that he was engaged to be
married again only a little more than a year after the death
of his first wife. But there also were lots of letters of con
gratulations and good wishes.
The debate over women's suffrage was raging then, and
the second Mrs. Wilson was responsible for bringing a woman
clerk into the White House office for the first time since I
had been there. She persuaded the President to appoint Mrs.
Maude Rogers, who had previously been employed in the
Gait jewelry store in Washington. I believe all of the office
force resented the appointment and looked forward to
trouble. That attitude soon changed. Mrs. Rogers was one of
the best and most likable employees in the office, and she
stayed on long after the Wilson administration.
Mr, Wilson never took much interest in the general run of
the mail coming into the White House. The trend of opinion
as reflected in letters or the arrival of gifts was of no particu
lar importance to him. His attitude was that he did not want
anyone to give him "even so much as a cold potato." The rest
of his family took much the same attitude, and after his sec
ond marriage this led to a peculiar little mystery. Since no
body seemed to care, it had become customary for some of the
ushers and servants in the White House to divide up gifts of
-98-
"Dear Mr. President . . .**
food and fruit that came to the President. So far as I know,
there was no objection to the practice, and of course all such
gifts had always been acknowledged by the office before they
were sent to the White House living quarters.
On one occasion, however, Mrs. Wilson sent over to me a
note from one of her friends in Virginia which referred to the
fact that he had sent her some grouse, ham, and sausage, of
which she was particularly fond. She asked why she had never
received the food. I showed her that the food had arrived,
according to my records, and had been delivered to the
living quarters. We traced it that far and then it seemed to
vanish into thin air. I could guess what had happened, but
the food never was found and nobody ever admitted having
received it in the kitchen, presumably because it had long
since been eaten. Mrs. Wilson was more than a bit miffed.
The years of World War I, of course, brought many
changes around the White House. The war forced expansion
of the staff and we began to lose the informality of the previ
ous administrations because the business of the Chief Execu
tive was getting bigger all the time. The mail deliveries were
getting bigger, too.
In 1914, very few persons in the United States had any
idea that our country might be embroiled in the European
conflict, and the mail reflected the strong opinion that what
was happening abroad was none of our business. There were,
of course, many hundreds of letters urging some kind of aid
to one side or the other, but very few favoring participation
in the war. Mr. Wilson made much of the slogan "He kept us
out of war" in his campaign for re-election in 1916.
But the change that was taking place began to be seen in
-99-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
the mail after 1916, and especially after the sinldng of the
Lusitania. In sharp contrast to the situation existing during
World War II, there was a broad division of opinion in this
country early in the war of 1914-18. It was reflected right in
the White House offices, where staff members of German
descent were naturally partial to the Fatherland of their
ancestors and did not hesitate to speak their mind early in the
conflict The Allied Powers, however, made great propaganda
use of the sinking of the Lusitania, and almost immediately
the situation began to change. There continued to be a steady
stream of antiwar mail, but this was greatly outnumbered by
letters condemning the Germans and, finally, by a stream of
mail favoring military action if necessary. Almost overnight
the pro-Germans on the White House staff who were good
Americans first of all were silent.
This propaganda mail greatly increased the burden of my
office, and I was forced to turn over the editing of the "yellow
journal" to another clerk and to get assistance to carry on my
regular duties in periods of pressure. When the President
finally asked for a declaration of war, the mail load reached
a peak for those times, and it never did drop back to the
leisurely pace of earlier days.
There was one incident about this time that I shall nevei
forget A brilliant young Harvard graduate who was a consci
entious objector spent weeks trying to get die attention of the
President in an effort to get into the diplomatic service, and
thus escape being drafted by the Army. The young man had
made various efforts to get a post through the State Depart
ment, and was eligible for a job, but due to a series of compli-
-100-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
cated events lie had finally been turned down, and Ms only
hope lay in an appeal that would bring a direct recommenda
tion from the President
He had completely failed to reach Mr. Wilson, and some
one to whom he appealed finally suggested that he come to
see me, because I might be able to get a letter to the Presi
dent for him. I would not have done such a thing under any
circumstances, but he could not realize that, and one Sunday
night in the midst of a blizzard, he set out for my home in
near-by Virginia.
The storm was so severe that transportation was disrupted.
The boy walked several miles through slushy snow. He got
lost. He was almost frozen when he appeared, covered with
sleet, at my door. There were tears in his eyes as he explained
the purpose of his visit and then pleaded with me to help him.
I was amazed when he said that all he wanted me to do was
tell him the "secret mark" to put on an envelope in order to
be sure that it reached the President personally. Who had
told him such a ridiculous story about a "secret mark" I never
discovered, but if it had not been such a tragic event I would
have found the idea highly amusing. I liked him very much
and considered him a brilliant young man, but all I could do
was to explain that no such thing as a secret marking on the
presidential mail existed. He eventually gave up and went
home. He spent the war days in jail, and I always regretted
the waste of such exceptional talents as he possessed.
The war years took a heavy toll of Mr. Wilson's strength,
but when the Armistice came we all felt, mistakenly, that we
had come to the end of our troubles.
-101-
"Dear Mr. President * . ."
The so-called false armistice came along several days
before the agreement for cessation of hostilities was actually
signed. When the newspapers carried the story, we knew at
the White House that the negotiations were in progress, and
that there had not yet been any actual signing. We tried to
make that clear to the reporters, but it was too late to restrain
the public generally. There was a great spontaneous outburst
People paraded through the streets. The bars served free
drinks. Girls whirling along the street kissed bystanders indis
criminately. Clarence Hess and I said, *%Vhat the hell! We
know it's not true, but there's no point in missing the fun," so
we went out and joined in. Hess kissed the girls. I had a
couple or three drinks for free. It was more exciting than
when the real signing came along a few days later.
While Mr. Wilson was in Europe for the peace conference,
there was a great deal of suspense at the White House and a
great deal of mail, too. The mail demonstrated that most
people did not understand the League of Nations, but they
were very strongly in favor of the President's objectives.
The President was enthusiastic and excited when he
returned home. He was pleased, too, and felt that he had
achieved his objectives. Even before he had taken off his hat
he came into the offices and shook hands with each of us,
which was probably the most warmth he had shown us since
he became President. His bearing gave us all a lift. We felt
that here was a man who had willingly thrown dice with
destiny, had won a victory, and had listened to the acclaim
of Europe, without losing his head. He had come back and
shaken our hands even before he took off his hat, in order to
-102-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
prove, I think, that a man need not forget where his feet were
planted even though he had stood in the high places.
He seemed to need to prove it not so much to us as to him
self.
We felt very close to Mr. Wilson in those days, and he
never lost his faith in the ultimate wisdom of the people,
although there was little time left for his hopes of success.
Senator Lodge began to peck at the peace structure that the
President had foolishly believed he could create almost
singlehanded. As the weaknesses began to appear, that
inimitable obstructionist, Senator Borah, started a nation
wide speaking tour against the League, in collaboration with
Senator Johnson of California. No man could attack more
efficiently or viciously than Borah, and soon the President's
satisfaction was replaced by despair, and he decided to carry
the fight to the people on a speaking tour. This tour was cut
short by his illness.
When they brought him back to the White House after he
was stricken while campaigning for the League of Nations, it
was known only that the President was suffering from a col
lapse that somewhat restricted his schedule. It was several
days later that we began to hear rumors that he was com
pletely paralyzed. The official bulletins and newspaper
stories, however, merely said that he was suffering from a
nervous breakdown and was very sick.
In my office it became apparent that Mr. Wilson was in a
far more helpless condition than was officially admitted.
Since his return to Washington we had been sending docu
ments requiring his signature to his private quarters and they
-103-
"Dear Mr, President . . "
had been slow in coming back. Now they ceased to come back
at all. Even emergency letters that went to the White House
seemed merely to vanish. When we asked about them, there
was no reply.
Tumulty, of all men at the White House, was presumably
closest to the President, but he had no explanation for the
delay. He inquired of Mrs. Wilson and of Admiral Gary
Grayson, the President's physician, but they put him off. I
was directly concerned, because documents and letters con
tinued to come to my desk and inquiries were piling up as to
when some action would be taken on important matters re
quiring Mr. Wilson s signature. I watched Tumulty grow
more and more worried. He walked from office to office,
picking up papers and putting them down again. He
talked to important visitors, stalling them off with vague
explanations. Finally, it became obvious that Tumulty was
as much cut off from the President as any of us.
Admiral Grayson was very close to the President. He had
accompanied him to Europe, and he had told me how Mr.
Wilson would return to his hotel suite in the evening and pace
the floor, going over in great detail all the conferences of the
day and repeating the conversation of each participant. Gray-
son would take notes as he talked and then go immediately
to dictate a full report to a secretary.
I knew Grayson well, because he was a breeder of race
horses and I had often gone with him to the race tracks. The
next time he appeared at the offices, I made a point of running
into him in the hall. I inquired about the President and got c -
vague reply.
-104-
"Dear Mr. President . . ! 9
"Well," I said, "perhaps I can ask you about this. I just
received a personal letter for the President and I don't believe
anyone else can handle it There are some other matters in
the same category. What do you think I should do?"
Grayson thought for a minute and said, "Send the letter
to me over at the House" the White House living quarters,
"and 111 talk to Mrs. Wilson and see what we can do/*
I avoided telling Tumulty anything about the conversation,
but I sent the letter over to Grayson. Later, I sent other letters
and documents directly to him. If Tumulty discovered my
action, he never said anything to me. His own efforts to see
Mr. Wilson were rebuffed and he was very uncertain of his
position.
At this time, a letter came to the President from Judge
Learned Hand of New York. It enclosed a letter signed by
Bruce Bielaski, who had been head of the Bureau of Investi
gation of the Department of Justice. Bielaskfs letter con
cerned grave charges against a high official in the Wilson
administration in connection with the handling of property
during the war. I knew that it was a matter to be taken di
rectly to the President, but under the circumstances I was
not at all certain how that was to be done or whether it was
worth while to try. Finally, after I thought everyone else had
gone home, I showed the letters to Charley Swem, the Presi
dent's personal stenographer, and asked his opinion. While
Swem was reading them, Tumulty unexpectedly wandered
into the room and paused to read over Charley's shoulder. He
read only a few lines and then reached for the letters.
"Let me have those/* he said.
"Dear Mr. President . . "
Swem lield onto them. "No," he replied, "I'm handling
this."
He tried to jerk away, but Tumulty was a bigger man and
he had a good grip on the letters. There was a brief, brisk
struggle and Tumulty pulled the letters out of Swem's hand,
turned quickly, and walked into the Cabinet Room. I went
down to the telephone switchboard, which was near the end
of our office, and watched the operator connect the Cabinet
Room phone with the Department of Justice. Five minutes
later the head of that department hurried into the offices and
went directly to the Cabinet Room to join Tumulty. What
disposition was made of the letters I never knew.
Mr. Wilson never returned to his office. After a few weeks
in which our business came to a standstill as far as it con
cerned matters requiring the President's personal attention,
there was a demand by members of Congress for an investiga
tion as to whether the President was incapacitated, which
would have meant that Vice-President Marshall would take
over his duties temporarily. Mrs. Wilson and Admiral Gray-
son never admitted that he was incapacitated, but for a
period of about a month almost no one else not even
Tumulty saw Mr. Wilson, and he was unable to sign his
name.
Grayson later told me of a conversation he had with the
President following the first grave attack. He intimated that
Mr. Wilson asked him to* promise that he would never dis
close to the public the gravity of his condition, presumably
because he hoped he could carry through the fight for the
League of Nations and felt that the facts about his illness
-108-
"Dear Mr. "President . . !'
miglit weaken his influence. This attitude led to many wild
rumors about his mental as well as his physical condition, but
Grayson and Mrs. Wilson ignored them for the most part.
It appeared to us in the office that the President was un
questionably unable to carry out the duties of his office as set
forth in the Constitution, but by the time a committee from
the Senate was successful in its insistence upon seeing Mr.
Wilson, he was able to sit up, and had begun to scribble his
signature on certain documents.
Slowly, very slowly, the machinery of the White House
office began to move again. Tumulty never admitted how
completely he had been severed from connection with the
President, but even after Mr. Wilson was able to leave his bed
for short periods, Tumulty continued to send papers to Mrs.
Wilson, who discussed them with the President and returned
them with notations or a signature. It seemed improbable that
Mr. Wilson improved very much in the year and a half that
he remained in the White House.
In that year and a half the political wheel was turning
back toward a new Republican administration that would
bring in Warren G. Harding, whose handsome face concealed
a surprisingly incendiary temper, and Calvin Coolidge, who
never missed a trick, and became my favorite President.
After Mr. Harding was inaugurated, Mr. Wilson purchased
and took with him to his home on S Street the big old open
car he had used when he was President. Occasionally I saw
him in the years before he died riding through the streets of
the capital with a shawl around his shoulders and an expres
sion of infinite sadness on his narrow, shrunken face.
-107-
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE ELECTION OF WABREN G. HABDING TO THE PRESIDENCY
was particularly exciting to me, and if I had known what
was coming my way when he moved into the White House it
would have been frightening as well
The exciting part, of course, was that the new President
came from Ohio, and I was pleased because I still had politi
cal contacts in that state, which had been the political
stamping ground of my Uncle John back in McKinley's
day. I had managed to hold onto my job during two terms in
which the Democrats ran things in Washington, but you
never could tell what would happen if another Democratic
President got in. So I mistakenly heaved a sigh of relief
when Harding was elected. As a matter of fact, 1 was in more
hot water within the next few months than at any time while
the Democrats were in power.
I believe I'd better pause long enough to explain that after
my marriage we moved to Washington and then for a while
we made a number of moves back and forth between Wash
ington and Virginia. Our daughter Betty was born in Falls
Church, so she, like her mother, is a Virginian. Then in 1916
-108-
"Dear Mr. President . . *
we bought a home in what is now Arlington, Virginia, about
three-quarters of an acre with large oak and hickory trees, and
things went along pretty well.
My wife was soloist in several of the Washington churches
for years. During World War I she went into government
service for work of six months' duration, and stayed there
for thirty-one years. We enjoyed life in a quiet way, and I
managed to get in a reasonable amount of hunting and fishing
and an occasional Saturday-night poker game. I remember
one argument we had (en famille) at a time when I had
received a small legacy, as to whether we were most in need
of a small cabin cruiser for fishing on the Potomac or a grand
piano. We finally compromised by getting both.
Betty was as curious as the next child, and as she got a little
older she would sometimes go to the office with me on Sun
day when nobody else was there. She would watch me cutting
open the mail and ask me why I did that and I'd tell her that
it was my job, just as the doctor's job was treating the sick or
the grocer's job was selling us food when we went to the
store. Not long after that I came home one day and found
Betty sitting in the middle of our living-room floor with the
wastebasket and the letters that had been delivered a few
minutes earlier by the mailman. I should say the remains of
the letters, because they were in tatters as a result of Betty's
busy work with a pair of shears.
Before I could open my mouth to scold her, she looked up
brightly and said: "Look, Daddy! I'm playing I'm Daddy at
the office working hard." And with that she cut another letter
into small pieces and dropped it into the wastebasket
-109-
"Dear Mr. President . . !*
Well ? as I was saying, we were doing all right when Mr.
Harding was elected. There was a huge accumulation of mail
for him by the time he was inaugurated, and that meant many
extra hours of work for me, but I was feeling pretty good
about it. Some of my relatives and a lot of my friends had
come on from Ohio for the big doings, and there were busy
times around the White House.
Soon after the inauguration, Harding's secretary George
Christian came into my office with a worried look on his
face,
"Now don't get excited, Ira," he said, <c but the President
wants to see you right away. Don't be upset"
I wasn't the least bit upset. Mr. Harding was from Ohio
and my family had worked hard for his election. My mother
had been in Washington recently and had called on the
President. I had told her not to mention that I was working
at the White House because I wanted to meet Mr. Harding
in my own way, but I assumed that she had said something
to him anyway.
I walked jauntily into the President's office and got my
first look at Mr. Harding, who had just returned from a rest
in Florida. He was tall and sun-tanned, and I thought I had
never seen a more handsome man. My enthusiasm for the
new boss suddenly soared and I smiled happily as I stuck out
my hand. The President shook my hand, but he didn't smile.
I never got a chance to say the things I had intended in the
way of greetings and good wishes. His eyes bored into me,
cold and angry. I knew suddenly that here was a man with
a temper.
-110-
"Dear Mr. President , . /*
His left hand had been behind his back, but now he thrust
it out toward me, holding a letter.
"Smith/' he snapped, "did you open this?''
I immediately recognized it and nodded.
"I want you to understand one thing, Smith/" he said in a
cold voice. "I am President of the United States, but I also
have a personal life. If you ever again open a personal letter
of mine you will be looking for another job/'
He turned abruptly and started back to his desk, dismissing
me. It took me a few seconds to recover, but I realized that I
had to talk back.
"Just a moment, Mr. President/* I blurted out "You prob
ably don't understand the circumstances. When you came
here I received a huge backlog of unopened letters for you.
They had been lying around for days or weeks and nobody
had done anything about them. They were finally forwarded
to me from the Republican National Committee, from
Marion, Ohio, from the Senate, and from Florida. A lot more
have come to you here and there are around ten thousand in
all. Of these, several thousand were marked 'personal/ I
asked Mrs. Harding and I asked your secretaries, but they
couldn't give me any guidance and I had no choice but to
open them. I won't make the same mistake twice/*
Mr. Harding paused and seemed to reconsider. "Well/ 9 he
said in a more friendly tone, "I guess I didn't understand.
Perhaps you are right/*
The letter he had in his hand was from an old crony in Ohio.
I had glanced at it, but it contained nothing of importance.
It was merely the idea of someone else's opening his personal
-111-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
mail that caused the President's anger. Very few men are
able to realize quickly the extent to which they sacrifice their
personal freedom when they enter the White House. They
soon find out, however, and the handling of their mail is one
of the first ways it is brought home to them. In the case of
Mr, Harding some very peculiar circumstances developed,
and there were some things about the handling of his mail
that he never did find out.
One morning not long after Mr, Harding became President
I was going through a huge accumulation of mail when I
came across a long envelope addressed to the Chief Executive
in slanting, feminine handwriting. That envelope, I suppose,
was one of the most explosive of the millions that I opened
and read at the White House.
The postmark was New York, and the date showed it had
been written before Mr. Harding was inaugurated, but there
had been such a backlog of mail that I did not get through all
of it for weeks. The envelope contained a long sheet of writ
ing paper, which I glanced at hastily. Then I stopped and
began reading carefully. I was not unaccustomed to
opening letters from cranks, nuts, disgruntled job-hunters,
or even practical jokers. But there was obviously something
different about this one. It said that the writer was again
appealing to Mr. Harding to keep his promise. It referred to
earlier letters written to him, and it made one thing very
clear: The writer was calling upon the President to acknowl
edge that he was the father of her infant daughter. The letter
was signed by Nan Britton.
I let the letter cool on my desk while I thought it over and
"Dear Mr. President . . /'
then I took it around to George B. Christian, the tall, dark,
and handsome man who was Mr. Harding's secretary.
"I think yoifd better see this one, Mr. Christian/* I said.
He read it through and got a bit white around the Bps.
"My God!" he exclaimed. "If the President finds out we
opened this he will fire both of us!"
Knowing something about Mr. Harding's temper, I felt that
might well be an understatement. We both took another look
at the letter. The handwriting was clear, but each line slanted
upward toward the right-hand side of the page, and the lan
guage made me feel that the contents had been dictated to or
copied by the writer. It was threatening, but stilted.
Christian hesitated briefly and then tore the letter into
long strips, tore them again, and dropped the scraps into the
wastebasket We looked at each other in silence and went
back to our desks. I was probably less disturbed than Chris
tian. I felt then and later that there was political inspiration
of some sort behind the Britton case. As everybody eventually
learned, Nan Britton's story was that she 'became friendly
with Mr. Harding while he was a member of the Senate and
in the winter of 1919 she spent considerable time with him in
Washington, after which she learned she was going to have
a baby. Later, she told all in a book called The President's
Daughter.
A couple of weeks after Christian tore up the Britton letter
another similar envelope arrived for the President I recog
nized the handwriting and didn't even open it. I tore it up
and dumped it in the wastebasket A third letter was handled
in the same way.
-113-
Mr. President . . r
I expected that any day we would hear from the President
about the letters, but we never did. When The President's
Daughter was published quite a while afterward it was a brief
sensation, and then the fuss died out. Years later I met Chris
tian at a small White House ceremony during the Truman
administration. He had gone blind, but he immediately rec
ognized my voice and said:
"Remember, Ira, when we tore up the President's letters?"
*1 remember/' I said. "You tore up the first one."
"Yes," he said, smiling, "I did* Good thing, too."
Mrs. Harding proved to be an ambitious First Lady. She
had been instrumental in pushing her husband along in politi
cal affairs, having no desire to spend the rest of her life as the
wife of the editor of a small Ohio newspaper. Having made
the grade, she spent much time worrying about the Presi
dent's political future and keeping his political fences in
good repair.
By the time of the Harding administration, we didn't see a
great deal of the White House family life, but Mrs. Harding
was always looking in on us. Usually, she was accompanied
by a group of political guests from the Corn Belt who were
being given a conducted tour of the White House. Mrs.
Harding would lead a frumpy-looking crowd, mostly women,
into the office and start explaining things to them in the
manner of a Chinatown sight-seeing-tour conductor. She
never understood the workings of the office herself, so she
would always bog down in the middle and say, "You tell
them, Mr. Smith." Always made me wish I'd taken that after
noon off to go fishing.
"Dear Mr. President . . /'
Mrs. Harding's favorite around the place was a doctor who,
through her efforts, became the President's physician; he
also became a Brigadier General. He was a little fellow, a bit
on the pompous side, and not particularly popular except
with the First Lady. So on the first day he arrived in his
resplendent uniform, the news photographers went to work
on him. They stopped him outside the office and posed him
all over the place, but particularly walking down the drive
way. He strutted a bit normally, but with the uniform he
strutted good. They made him do it over and over, snapping
their cameras endlessly while the doctor sweated in the sun.
After about fifteen minutes, while he was panting but still
game, I asked one of the boys why they were wasting so much
film on him.
"Hell, we're just having fun/* he replied. "Nobody's had
any film in his camera since the first shot. But we like to see
him strut/'
Perhaps the most famous figure of the Harding days was
Laddie Boy, a handsome Airedale dog that was better known
in his time than even the Roosevelts' Falla. Laddie Boy was
friendly, but ready to fight anything that showed up in a
pugnacious mood. After Mr. Harding's death on a trip that his
wife had thought would be helpful toward his renomination,
the dog was given to Harry Barker of the Secret Service.
Stories about Laddie Boy had helped spread the craze for
Airedales at the time, and I had a fine Airedale bitch that I
wanted to mate with the Harding dog. Harry refused my
suggestion.
"I can't do it/' he said. "Mrs. Harding made me promise
-115-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
never to breed Laddie Boy, because she wanted Ms line to
die with him. Don't ask me why.**
Later, my bitch had some puppies and one of the news
photographers made a cute picture of them. It was published
in many newspapers with a caption that mistakenly gave the
impression that they had been sired by Laddie Boy. I was
deluged with letters offering big prices for the pups.
Mr. Harding's comparatively short tenure in the White
House was remarkable chiefly for a lot of political hocus-
pocus, and the case of the decapitated salmon. The hocus-
pocus is well known, so I will mention only the salmon, which
was the first big catch of the season in Maine and was sent as
a gift to the President. When it arrived, one of the more
publicity-minded Congressmen from Maine called up and
insisted that he wanted to present it to the President, for the
benefit, chiefly, of the news photographers. It was finally
arranged, and he rushed down to the White House for the
ceremony.
Everybody gathered around. The Congressman smoothed
his hair, the photographers were summoned, and word was
sent to the kitchen to produce the salmon. Then there was a
delay quite an ominous delay. Finally it developed that the
cook had cut off the salmon's head because it was too big to
put in the icebox before decapitation. There were wails of
anguish, but there was also an inspiration. A needle and
thread were found and the salmon's head was sewed on again.
You'd never have guessed it when you saw the pictures.
-lie-
CHAPTER EIGHT
CALVIN COOLIDGE WAS IN THE WHITE HOUSE BUBING AN
economic boom time when it seemed that almost every
body in the country was gambling on the market except the
President and me.
Some of the White House staff bought stocks on margin.
Important political and business figures, such as John Hays
Hammond, were always coining into the executive offices and
passing out hot tips on when to buy what and when to sell. I
never took advantage of their suggestions. My job of handling
the White House mail gave me access to much information
that a stock-market gambler could have used to great advan
tage. I never used it Others on the staff went in for real-
estate gambles, and some of them urged me to participate in
several deals that seemed likely to turn a quick profit I
never did,
I wouldn't attempt to guess what Mr. Coolidge thought
about such goings-on, but it was always my idea that I'd
rather put my money on a good horse running at Havre de
Grace. My friends and colleagues frequently spoke critically
of my business dealings with the race-track bookies, but in
-117-
"Dear Mr. President . /*
the end I think I came out about as well as the stock-market
gamblers who saw their paper profits collapse in 1929 and the
real-estate speculators who had their property washed down
the Potomac by floods. Anyway, I had more fun.
So did Mr. CooHdge. He was never a spectacular President.
Mostly he Just sat tight, although I always felt that he would
have been prompt and firm in any crisis. But he was best
known, I suppose, for the amusing stories about him.. He was
built up and built himself up as a man with a steady hand
and a quizzical sort of Vermont humor. It was a pretty accu
rate picture as far as it went, but it paid scant attention to his
New England inhibitions. It always seemed to me that he
suppressed his feelings to the point where he was sometimes
quietly boiling inside, and when his irritation did pop out, it
was in an abrupt, indirect fashion.
I came to know Mr. CooHdge unusually well. We were both
careful not to make a point of our friendship, although there
was one time when I very much wanted to try. That was
when his son Calvin died and the President suffered a period
of utmost despondency without ever permitting anyone on
the outside even to attempt to help him. He went about his
routine almost as usual, giving no outward sign of what I
knew to be a great emotional struggle. He never mentioned
the illness or the loss of his son, and never gave me or anyone
else a chance to express even a word of sympathy. It made
me think he might have been far better off if he could have
let some emotion show through, at least for a moment.
My first contact with Mr. Coolidge was unusual. When
Warren G. Harding died, Mr. Coolidge refused to move into
-118-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
the White House until after the funeral, which was a week or
so later. He wouldn't even use the executive offices, having
taken over a Willard Hotel suite that was transformed into
working rooms. Mr. Coolidge had a big staff provided by the
Superintendent of Buildings and Grounds, and in a few days
complete chaos had been achieved both at the Willard and
at the White House excutive offices.
Finally, three of us from the White House staff went down
to the hotel and co-ordinated operations, and the President
was not only grateful but remembered it. On the day he
moved to the White House he asked all of us to come up into
the Willard ballroom and had his picture taken with us.
The President followed a fairly regular daily routine, but
he was in the habit of popping up at odd times in the most
unexpected places, roaming from basement to attic and just
looking in to see that everything was as it should be. At such
times he was always asking countless questions, although
in general he was impatient of anyone who wasted words
or motions or failed to get his work done in orderly
fashion,
I usually got to the office about 8 A.M. in order to have the
mail in readiness when the staff arrived, and after the Presi
dent had taken his morning walk. Along toward 8:30 1 would
usually see him coming back to the White House with one
Secret Service man, probably Colonel Edmund W. Starling,
walking beside him, and another following closely.
The President walked very straight, with his nose pointed
directly forward and his hat set squarely on top of his head.
But without ever turning his head he took in everything in
-119-
"Dear Mr. President . . .**
front, to Ms right, and to Ms left and sometimes, I tMnk, to
Ms rear. His eyes were constantly moving back and forth in
eager and inquisitive search. On one occasion my daughter
and I were some thirty feet off to one side of him as he walked
stiffly down the street and I was sure that he had not seen
us. But not only did he lift his hat without turning his face
toward usbut later he asked Starling many question about
my daughter, where she went to school, where we lived, and
so on.
When he turned into the WMte House grounds after his
walk he would head straight for the basement driveway at a
fairly fast clip. Then just as he came opposite our office door
he would sometimes make a sharp right turn so unexpectedly
that the momentum of the Secret Service men would carry
them on to the driveway before they could stop, while the
President would be entering the office alone and with a
pleased expression on Ms face. He would walk into my office,
look down Ms sharp nose at me, and say: "Good morning.
Are there any mails for me?" Or he often asked particularly
if there were "mails" from his father. I would have Ms per
sonal letters ready and he would carry them off to Ms office.
He had a thorough knowledge of the office, and would often
go himself to the files for records.
On mornings when I was late to work I might find him
sitting in my chair, with his feet on the desk, reading letters
he had sorted out of the mail. On such occasions he would
not even look at me, and instead of saying anytMng, I would
go to another desk, sit down, and twiddle my thumbs until
he decided to leave. He usually departed without speaking
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
to me, and I felt that if I had offered any explanation of my
failure to beat him to the office he would have merely sniffed
and walked away.
I don't know whether the President ever sat with his feet
on his own desk, but I was always glad he chose to park his
shoes on mine on those occasions. I always enjoyed doing it
myself, and if anybody raised an eyebrow at me I pointed out
that what was good enough for Mr. Coolidge was good
enough for me. I always felt that way about the Coolidge
administration in general, too, because it was the most en
joyable of all from my viewpoint. Bight now I feel that I never
want to open another letter of any kind, but if I could work
for Mr. Coolidge, I'd be happy to go back on the job to
morrowprovided 'both of us could get some time off for
fishing.
Mr. Coolidge was a master of dry and dead-pan humor. He
never smiled at his own jokes, and if you wanted his respect,
you never acted more than moderately amused. He didn't
face you when he was making a joke, but he always cut his
eyes around to see whether you caught it. This put quite a
strain on some members of the staff who either were inclined
to laugh out loud, or who weren't always sure when it was a
joke. I usually found his jokes of a caliber that enabled me to
restrain my laughter, and we got along fine.
Once when an Ohio Congressman was making a big front
page fuss about bureaucratic wastefulness and idleness, Mr.
Coolidge came into the office and saw Charley Wagner, the
chief stenographer, with his feet on a desk and a newspaper
opened so that his face was covered and he failed to see the
-121-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
President. Mr. Coolidge walked up to him, tapped at the
paper, and said severely, "That man from Ohio will get after
you." Then he hurried away. Wagner never was sure whether
he was being ribbed.
On another occasion the President came into the office and
examined some packages that had just arrived. He was appar
ently about to open a big one when I reminded him that it
was against Secret Service orders for the President to open
any packages. He was a bit peevish about it, and since I knew
what was in the package because of a letter received earlier,
I told him I would open it while he watched. It turned out
to be a big and costly picture frame that held a very gaudy
and unattractive colored photograph of a locomotive, sent in
with the compliments of the manufacturers. The President
looked at it in petty disappointment, and then, cutting his
eyes toward me, said:
"Well, send it over to the house. Mama can make good use
of that frame."
The Coolidges had been given a big white collie after they
came to the White House, and although the President didn't
care much for the dog, it often went with him on his ram-
blings around the place. One day he investigated the White
House basement's innermost recesses and came across Wil
liam Pannell, a big, fast-talking Negro janitor who had
quarters there. Pannell had not seen the President close up
before, but he quickly leaped at the opportunity to make him
feel at home in the White House, and to explain in enthusi
astic terms how much he admired Mr. Coolidge.
The President listened for about thirtv seconds, and made
122
"Dear Mr. President . * /*
up his mind that Pannell was building up to ask him a favor.
TMs was a mistake, because Pannell just liked to talk, but it
was a natural mistake on the part of a President who was
always being asked for something. Mr. Coolidge turned
abruptly away, saying "Come on, doggie/* to the big collie.
He walked swiftly to the door, and then turned back to the
crestfallen Pannell.
"Well," he said, "take anything that isn't nailed down. . . .
Come on, doggie."
He was always suspicious of politicians, but he played the
game according to rules. With an eye toward the 1924 nomi
nation he brought in Bascom Slemp, a millionaire Southern
coal operator, to be his secretary. Slemp had been in Congress
and was able to exert such a strong influence on his party in
the Southern states that when the Republicans were in power
in Washington he was called the "little President of the
South"
His atention was devoted to the President's political prob
lems, and he did a good job. Like Jim Farley, he had an
excellent memory for faces and names, and a pocketful of
tricks to smooth over the situation if he forgot one. Slemp
arranged for the first radio broadcast ever made by a Presi
dent before Congress, and Mr. CooMdge's precise New Eng
land voice went over the air waves with good results. Slemp
had made sure that the greatest possible audience was listen
ing, and after the broadcast he wrote to some of his hillbilly
political friends in Tennessee and asked them to report on
reaction to the speech. One of them replied: "There wasn't
no reaction. Everybody liked it."
-123-
Mr. President . . ."
Another able aide of Mr. Coolidge was Judson Welliver, a
newspaperman who did research and helped write the Presi
dent's speeches. In those days the President did not have a
regular press secretary or a ghost writer, and there was no
provision for such an employee on the White House pay roll.
Welliver was technically in the employment of another gov
ernment department, but he was lent to the White House
without having any official tide.
He was an extraordinarily skillful writer, but he liked to
take a drink whenever he was sure Mr. Coolidge would not
find out that he was violating the Eighteenth Amendment.
One day he waited until the President had left his office and
then he dragged out a bottle of homemade wine that I had
concocted and traded to him for a bottle of bourbon. Welliver
preferred my wine to bourbon and was always after me to
trade. He took a few drinks and was feeling no pain when
Mr. Coolidge returned unexpectedly to his office and sum
moned his ghost writer.
Welliver went reluctantly because my wine had an aroma
almost equal to its kick. He stood inside the door of the
President's office.
"I wanted you to see this, Mr. Welliver," the President said
in his precise Vermont voice, pointing with his finger at a
newspaper. "Come over here/*
Welliver moved up as far as the desk **Yes, sir."
Mr. Coolidge looked up. "Come around here, Mr. Welliver,
where you can see it'*
"I can see it from here, Mr. President,' 1 Jud replied. Mr.
Coolidge sniffed.
-124-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
"Mr. Welliver," he said sharply, his finger still on the item
under inspection, "I asked you to come around here where
you can see it**
Welliver moved around the desk, trying to hold his breath.
The President sniffed again, handed him the paper, and
stood up.
"I'll see you at ten o'clock tomorrow, Mr. Welliver/* he said
sedately, and departed. He sniffed once more as he left, but
he didn't say anything later to Jud.
One day the President stopped at my desk and asked me
whether his son John received much mail. John was a likable
and good-looking kid, and he had been getting a good deal
o fan mail, especially from teen-age girls who wanted the
thrill of writing to a boy in the White House. Some of these
letters from girls he didn't know were clever, and occasionally
John would answer one of them with a flippant note.
I told Mr. Coolidge that there were usually some letters
for John every day or so. He nodded, and said that hereafter
I was to send them to him instead of the boy. The next day
John wandered in, acting a bit too casual. We talked about
nothing much until he finally asked whether his father had
given me instructions about his mail. I told Mm what had
happened.
"Well,** he said with some embarrassment, "it doesn't mat
ter except for one thing. You see, there's one that's different.
I don't mind Dad getting the others, but this one . . . You
know the one I mean?"
Yes, I said, I believed I knew the one.
"You know she's an old friend, and not like the crazy ones
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
that just write in without knowing me. I wondered if
maybe . . ?
"John/* 1 said, "I'm sorry, but I have very definite orders
from the President and youll have to work it out with him."
The boy's face showed how he felt about that. So I went on:
"Of course you know how we do things here. I sort out your
letters each morning and put them in a pile right there on the
comer of my desk. Then I sort the other letters. Sometimes I
even have to go out of the room for some reason or other.
Then later I send the letters over to your f ather."
John gave me a long, pleased look and departed. The next
morning I sorted out his letters, and there was one from the
girl. I kept an eye on the door, and when I saw John coming
I got up and went elsewhere. When I came back the letter
was gone and so was John. We worked it that way for quite
a while, and I don't think we ever missed a trick. I guess our
little trick was all right, because later John married the girl.
She was Florence Trumbull, daughter of the Governor of
Connecticut.
The President was not a generous giver, but he always
wanted to do the right thing. One day he walked up to my
desk and suddenly handed me a box of cigars.
"Have some tobaccah," he said. Then he walked on down
to the desk of Nelson Webster, the disbursing officer, and
repeated the performance. Webster and I later compared
notes and found that he had taken the trouble to discover
what price cigars each of us smoked. Webster smoked twenty-
five-centers and he got twenty-five-cent cigars. I smoked ten-
centers and that's what I got. Both boxes, incidentally,
-126-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
came from the large number of gift cigars sent to the Presi
dent that were stacked up in his study. I guess Mr. Coolidge
figured that if I smoked ten-cent cigars I wouldn't appreciate
anything better.
Mr. Coolidge never had a real vacation until he came to
the White House, but there he learned to enjoy them. On
one trip to upper New York State he tried fishing, and loved
it. There were a lot of stories making fun of him for using a
worm to catch trout, but actually he became quite proficient.
His main complaint was that Starling, who considered himself
an expert hunter and fisherman, always made him go down
to Chesapeake Bay to fish, claiming that fishing was not
worth while in the near-by Potomac. The President didn't like
the long trip, but he took Starling's word for it. This had
gone on for some time when the President came in one day
and found me absent.
"Where's Rapid Transit Smith?" he asked. He never ad
dressed me that way, but when I was not present he often
referred to me as Rapid Transit because my initials are I.R.T.,
just like the Interborough Rapid Transit system in New York
City. I think he liked that because I am a rather deliberate
person.
One of the boys allowed as how I might be down on the
Potomac fishing, which I was. The next day Mr. Coolidge
came in early.
"Catch anything?" he asked abruptly.
I said I caught a few nice bass. He took his mail without
another word and walked out. Sometime later, Starling came
in with a red face and complained bitterly that I had knifed
-127-
"Deaf Mr. President . . "
him, and said he had caught hell from the President for say
ing there were no fish in the Potomac.
Mr. Coolidge also tried hunting, but with unsatisfactory
results. Starling took him out with a party looking for quail.
They trudged along until the dogs made a point Then every
body stepped back to let the President have the first shot. The
quail were flushed and whirred away, but no shot was fired.
When they looked at Mr. Coolidge he was holding the gun in
the crook of his arm and watching the birds. Never did fire.
Never hunted again, either.
Being a hunter myself, I enjoyed hearing about the Presi
dent's attitude toward shooting, and I had a little fun with
him the following Christmas as a result of an accident. I had
gone hunting with Dr. Walter Bloedom and was a little in
front of him when some birds got up. We both shot, and
three No. 8 chilled shot from his gun struck my cheek. He was
distressed, and insisted on going back to a farmhouse, where
he picked out the shot and dabbed my cheek liberally with
iodine. As I had previously scratched my other cheek on
some bushes, he completed the Job by using the iodine on
spots all over my face.
The next day was Christmas, always a rush time in the mail
room, and I went down to the office to catch up on my work.
While I was there the President came in, and he gave my
splotched face a long, searching look. I knew he was curious,
but I didn't offer any explanation. He fussed around for a
while and finally gave me one cf those sidewise glances.
TBeen to a party?" he asked tersely.
I nodded. "Yes, a shooting party/' I replied, just as tersely.
-128-
"Dear Mr. President . . /'
He looked at me questioningly, but I went on sorting the
mail and didn't say any more. I knew he wasn't going to ask,
either, but it was burning him up. He kept on fooling around
and I kept on saying nothing. My little joke was spoiled when
Bloedorn, still worried about me, came by to look at the
scratches, and of course talked about what had happened.
The President didn't comment, but after hearing the whole
story he gave me an amused side glance, pleased that he had
found out after all.
The President didn't often resent things that were amusing.
There were stories at one time that he was angry because
Will Rogers imitated his voice in a very clever skit on the
radio. Lots of people thought it was really Mr. Coolidge, and
wrote in complaining about what he said. Rogers, fearing that
he had offended the President, sent him a letter of apology,
and in return got a telegram inviting him to lunch at the
White House. He wired back: "My God, Mr. President, do
you really mean it?"
The President was always much interested in the gifts that
came to him, and he kept a dose check on them, but he was
also careful about government property. Two incidents illus
trate this attitude.
Two weeks before the then Prince of Wales visited the
White House, his equerry came to my office and explained
that the British Embassy was sending over several cases of
the Prince's own Apollinaris water, which was the only water
he ever drank. The equerry wanted to know how to arrange
for it to be served at the table and made available in the
Prince's room. I put him in touch with the steward, and in
-129-
"Dear Mr. President , . ?
return for the favor, he sent me a case of the Apollinaris
water in handsome bottles with a special label showing that
it was put up by a Special Purveyor to His Royal Highness.
I was pleased, because I wanted to show off the bottles to
my friends and give some of them away as souvenirs, but by
mistake my case was placed with some packages for the
House proper and came under the watchful eye of Mr.
Coolidge. He just assumed it was for him and told the
steward:
"Ok, fine. I like that size bottle. Send it right up to my
study and well use it this afternoon for some lemonade."
Nobody wanted to dampen his enthusiasm by correcting
the misunderstanding, and I had to see my prize souvenirs
disappear in the direction of the President's study. But he
made up for it later. One day he was talking to me about
fishing and I remarked that I was going to have a new ice
box made to fit into a certain place on my boat. I was plan
ning to go down that day to get the exact measurements.
"Let me have the measurements/' he said.
The next morning he asked if I had the measurements and
I handed them to him on a slip of paper.
"Don't do anything until you hear from me/* he said, and
disappeared for half an hour. When he came back he was
looking pleased. *Tve got one just the right size and you can
have it/' he said. "All youTl have to do is saw the iron legs off."
The icebox he gave me was a handsome one that had been
in his study and was being replaced by an electric refrigera
tor. Later, when I told him it was just right, I also asked him
jokingly what he was going to do about a missing icebox
-ISO-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
when the next check-up was made on the White House
inventory.
"Oh, that's all right/* he said. "You can give me your old
one."
Almost every White House family has some pet that be
comes well known to the nation. In the case of the Coolidges,
it was the handsome white collie dog already mentioned.
The collie was best known, perhaps, because it was included
in a portrait of Mrs. Coolidge done by Howard Chandler
Christy. The President liked the painting and decided it
would be nice to send photographs of it to their friends. One
was sent to the man who had given the collie to the President
Mr. Coolidge got a telegram in reply: "Fine picture of dog.
Send more photographs."
Mrs. Coolidge was the most charming First Lady I knew,
and she was admired by all of the staff. Like the President, she
took a friendly interest in us and helped make our work
pleasant The President, however, was always on guard
against anything or anyone that might attract unfavorable
attention toward the White House. Any breath of scandal
frightened him, and he never took a chance, probably because
the Harding-administration scandals were so vivid in his
mind. Several White House employees who were involved in
unsensational divorce actions or something of the sort were
quietly but quickly shifted to other jobs. The President never
waited to see whether there would be gossip; he got rid of
the man if anything arose that just might lead to gossip.
I think that was what happened in the case of the Secret
Service man who accompanied Mrs. Coolidge on her walks.
-131-
"Dear Mr. President . . .**
They became good friends, and Mrs. Coolidge was interested
to learn that lie was very much in love with a girl he later
married. But somehow a small rumor started about Mrs.
Coolidge and her Secret Service companion. It was the sort
of thing Woodrow Wilson would have stubbornly ignored
because it was so obviously false, but in this case the Secret
Service man immediately vanished from the White House
detail. The President of course knew that the rumor was
ridiculous, but he took no chances on any fingers being
pointed at the White House.
The President didn't miss any political bets either, for all
of his dead-pan approach to publicity hoop-la. He had a
temper that could make itself felt in high places, but he
always felt a strong sympathy for the ordinary citizen and
frequently went out of his way to perform some little act of
thoughtfulness for a stranger.
One Sunday morning when I was at the office trying to
catch up with a heavy flood of mail he came over from the
White House and stood beside my desk while I opened a
large pile of letters. One of them was a special delivery letter
from a woman who wanted to know what church the Presi
dent would attend that day and at what time he would be
there. She explained that she was in Washington only for a
few days and that she wanted her small son to get a glimpse
of the President while he was in the capital because it would
be something he would remember always and could tell his
friends about She asked whether it would be possible to
telephone her at her hotel and tell her which church Mr.
Coolidge would attend.
I handed him the letter and he read it carefully. Without
-132-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
saying anything, he picked up a pencil and wrote:
10:30 A.M. Monday/* He handed the notation to me and
went abruptly away. Such notes were typical of Mr. Coolidge,
and I understood that he meant for me to telephone the
woman and tell her to hring her son to the White House on
Monday at 10:30 A.M. for a visit with the President This I
did, and the delighted mother and son were received by
Mr. Coolidge.
When Mr. Coolidge's term ended, he just sort of faded out
of the White House without any formal good-bys, and Her
bert Hoover took over. I, for one, was sorry to see Mr.
Coolidge go, because it seemed to me that his departure
marked the end of a chapter in our history. He was probably
the last of our modern-era Presidents who was able to give
the impression of avoiding the extreme mental and physical
strains of the office. This was due both to the period in which
he served and to his temperament, although it was difficult
to tell just what tensions were at work behind that New
England f aade.
He believed, however, that a man was inefficient if he
failed to get through his allotted work each day. Mr. Coolidge
always got through his. He didn't like noise or hoop-la, and
he didn't like sudden and drastic changes the kind of
changes that we were heading for even if we could not then
see them. He was, perhaps, a little old-fashioned, and, as I
hope I've made clear, I liked him, and I believe he liked me.
I never laughed heartily at his jokes just enough to let him
know I got the point He seemed to like that He may even
have realized that very few of his jokes were worth more
than a mild chuckle, but I doubt it
-133-
CHAPTER NINE
WHEN HERBERT HOOVER BECAME PRESIDENT THE COUNTRY
was in the midst o a prosperous and booming time, but
it was also a time of ferment and change and underlying
restlessness. Things were never going to be the same again
in the ILS.A., and especially not in the White House.
It always seemed to me that in the late nineteen-twenties
the country tended to go a bit wacky about science. Now
don't get me wrong; Tin a great advocate of scientific prog
ress. What I mean is that you sometimes got the impression
that people believed science could make up a few formulas,
push a few buttons, and solve all the problems of the world.
Those were the days when everybody was reading with avid
excitement books about how things were doing in outer
stellar space and people were gabbing about Einstein's dis
coveries in the electromagnetic-gravitational field as if they
understood what it was all about.
I always encouraged such people to go on learning, but
they reminded me of the horse players who had worked out
a perfect system for cleaning up at the track. I never felt they
knew exactly what they were talking about. My own hunch
-134-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
was that ruiroing the world would continue to be a job calling
for a lot of hard work, and that picking the winners would
call for considerable knowledge of horseflesh, track conditions
and luck.
This scientific trend I mention not disparagingly, but
because it properly coincided with the administration of Mr.
Hoover, who was hailed as the Great Engineer. I think people
may have had a feeling that the country was running a little
wild economically, but that if they elected Mr. Hoover, his
scientific genius would straighten things out and the people
could go on doing as they pleased.
As far as the White House was concerned, Mr. Hoover
brought about some changes, and was the originator of the
multiple-secretary system. His engineering mind was inclined
to put everything into the proper pigeonhole, including the
staff, and his political, press, and executive secretaries formed
a buffer line around the President day and night. Big-business
methods had finally taken over at the White House. It was
about time, I suppose, but it was a far cry from the days of
the McKinley administration when each of us could do almost
any job in the office, and when the President often answered
his mail by handing a letter to some clerk and saying: "Oh,
tell him thus and so. You know how to say it"
As a matter of fact, the White House staff never has been
very efficient and, due to political and other considerations, it
is not likely that it ever will be. Sometimes, of course, it has
been highly inefficient, and there have been periods of slip
shod and unbusinesslike operations that would not be tol
erated in private business. There have also been furious out-
-135-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
breaks in which commissions and efficiency experts did their
stuff zealously, but they have never made more than mod
erate progress in ending duplication of work and the rivalries
of various divisions that interfered with our operations.
In my own job of handling the mail, I did a major part of
the actual work myself for many years, getting assistance
assigned to me only during periods of heavy mail deliveries,
such as the inauguration of a new President or debate over
some vital issue in national or international affairs. The
need for help arose in the Wilson administration, but it
skckened off some early in the nineteen-twenties, and the
volume did not permanently become heavy until the Hoover
administration, which was the beginning of the modern
period of big-scale presidential mail.
After I had begun to acquire a force of clerks on my own
staff, I tried to develop in each administration systems for
handling the mail that would fit in with the practices of other
government divisions, particularly the divisions to which we
necessarily had to forward much of the White House mail.
This effort frequently backfired in the complex bureaucratic
system that has grown up in Washington, because others took
the position that we were trying to assume too much responsi
bility, or that we were delegating disagreeable work to other
divisions when we might be doing it ourselves. I spent a lot
of time trying to keep our relations smooth so that we could
get the co-operation of other divisions in handling the grow
ing volume of mail.
Another difficulty was that until 1946 only a few clerks
were appointed by Executive Order to the White House
-136-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
rolls. The great majority o the force was detailed for an
indefinite period from various other departments of the Gov
ernment. That is, most of the persons working at the White
House actually were technically in the employment of other
departments, such as Interior or Treasury, and were paid by
appropriations Congress made for these other departments,
which then detailed or lent them to the White House.
Whenever we needed additional clerks we would send a
statement of requisite qualifications to one of the departments
and ask for a certain number to be detailed to us. In such
cases, however, the White House did not normally put on
pressure for well-qualified clerks, and we were likely to get
clerks that the department felt wouldn't be missed much.
I always felt this attitude was a mistake, and when addi
tional clerks were being asked for the mail room I found
excuses to designate particular persons whose ability I knew.
Since the request came from the White House, they were
usually made available, and I was able to keep my own staff
at a high level. In fact, the greatest fault with my system was
that I got some people detailed from other departments who
were too good for the jobs in the mail room.
I remember way back in McKinley's time that the Presi
dent's inclination to be helpful and friendly resulted in the
installation of one of the most unusual ushers in White House
history. He was a Swiss who spoke English in a way that very
few Americans could easily understand, and he got his job
only because his wife was Mrs. McKinley's personal maid and
the First Lady was very fond of her. The Swiss might have
been a fine usher in Berne, but his poor English made him
-137-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
an amusing figure in the White House, a circumstance that
tie never realized as he went about his duties, which included
showing visitors through the famous rooms on the first floor.
He always ended up by explaining a few facts about how
he got his job and saying: "I feel der responsi-beel-ity of der
position/'
That was more than you could say for some of the persons
who have drifted on and off the White House staff. I recall
two boys who were assigned to me by one presidential secre
tary. They were his personal friends, and were bright kids.
One of them turned out to be the secretary's social assistant
and the other one went to law school all day and reported at
the White House in the evening, just in time to study for his
classes the next day. They were nice boys, but they didn't
give me any help.
On the other hand* when commissions and experts were
surveying efficiency at various times at the White House
it was difficult for them to make allowances for fluctuation of
work, especially in the mail room. One month there might be
comparatively little to do and we would have periods of idle
ness. The next month we might be forced to work late every
night just to keep up with the stream of mail. Thus one period
usually made up for the other, and if an investigator found
a clerk reading the newspaper or one of the girls doing a little
knitting, it did not mean that the Government's money was
being wasted. That was a situation that existed during the
entire period I worked at the White House, and I imagine
that it will always be more or less that way.
In general, however, we always had decent, efficient, hard-
-188-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
working people in the mail room, and the Government got
its money's worth. Some of the clerks stepped from the White
House into private industry and with White House prestige
behind them made wonderful successes in the business
world.
On the other hand, we had a few misfits. I recall one clerk
with a phobia for violent exercise, which he told us took the
form of swinging from tree to tree, a la Tarzan. Another was
a bit overwhelmed by working at the White House, and
represented himself elsewhere as an assistant secretary to the
President until he was permitted to find another job. One of
the messengers who did certain errands to stores around town
always sought out the proprietors and told them he was
"pulling" for them to get White House orders. In that way he
collected cigars, liquor, chickens, and other items that he said
would be used for a party for White House clerks. He was
soon permitted to depart
One clerk fell in love with the photograph of a Congress
man's daughter and wrote her passionate love letters. The
Congressman got wind of what was happening and moved
in rapidly, removing the clerk from the premises. There was
another clerk who stuck around for a long time trying to
make something out of the prestige of working at the White
House. He watched carefully for Cabinet members, Senators,
and other prominent visitors, and usually managed to get
around to greet them while they were waiting to get into
the President's office. They had no idea who he was, but he
always clapped them on the back, shook their hands, and
shouted, "How are you, boy!" or, "If s a great day, eh, boy! ?>
-139-
Mr. President . . "
and of course they usually said yes, it was. The clerk worked
hard at making friends in that manner for a long time, but
he never did get very far and finally gave it up. It was a relief
to some Senators when he departed, because they never had
figured out who he was and felt embarrassed about asking.
Well, Mr. Hoover tried to make a few improvements
around the place and I guess he did. So many unhappy de
velopments came along during his term that in the end it
didn't seem to matter much whether the White House staff
was running efficiently; the problem was whether the country
was going to keep on running at all.
The President was affable when we saw him, but that
wasn't often. When he wanted something he would call us
on the telephone., and his secretaries considered his time so
valuable that they never let him waste it chatting with the
office help. I always felt that this intense feeling of efficient
and big-scale operations contributed to Mr. Hoove/s political
difficulties. He was a good conversationalist and enjoyed a
joke when he got a chance, but it always seemed that he was
too busyor he was made to appear too busy and too efficient
ever to relax and be himself.
And of course as the country stumbled into a period of
economic desperation Mr. Hoover was worried and harassed.
He arranged a scientific check of the mail to watch the trend
of public opinion on such matters as Prohibition, and then on
the efforts that were made to combat the depression. He
worried about propaganda mail without seeming fully to
understand how much of it was cleverly inspired by his
political foes. He was swayed by false hopes and fears, and
-140-
"Dear Mr. President . . /'
lie just couldn't seem to make up Ms miacL The mall for
months was full of reports on bank failures and foreclosures
which made it obvious that some action must be taken, yet
Mr. Hoover delayed. He wanted to be sure before he did any
thing, but by that time it was usually too late to make much
difference, or he was frustrated by partisan politics. He read
and absorbed wonderful reports from financial advisers at
home and abroad, but about all that happened was that they
went into a large filing cabinet, or so it seemed to me.
His secretaries were no great help in those days. Lawrence
Bichey was a good man who had come up from the Secret
Service, but he could never win the sympathy of the news
papermen. Walter R. Newton, the political secretary, was so
ambitious in Minnesota that, according to newspaper reports,
he let his own affairs interfere with the President's political
welfare. Mr. Hoover, however, had implicit faith in him, and
no one ever dared tell him the truth.
The President worked at a terrific pace as conditions be
came more critical. He was at his desk at all hours and got
very little relaxation or exercise. He didn't like exercise any
way, and when he was persuaded to toss a medicine ball
around in the back yard he did it in halfhearted fashion. If
the ball came his way he would catch it and throw it to some
body, but he didn't make any effort to attract a toss.
It became more and more difficult for his secretaries and
his doctor to get him out of the White House for a week-end
rest. The Marines had built a fine camp for him on the
Rapidan River, and for a time he went there with week-end
guests, usually Cabinet members, whom he put to work
-141-
Mr. President . ."
carrying stones to build a dam. They didn't care mucli for
such hard labor, and later Mr. Hoover went to the camp
only under strong pressure.
Frequently it was announced that he would leave on Friday
noon, but at 7 P.M. he would still be working at his desk.
Many times he merely canceled the trip at the last minute,
and we never knew for certain that he would go until his
automobile had crossed the Potomac. Even then he might
return the next day. This naturally made it difficult for the
White House newspapermen, who never knew whether they
would make a trip to the Rapidan or sit in Washington over
the week end. It didn't help Mr. Hoover's press relations
when they had to unpack their bags on Friday night, or when
they had to make a last-minute scramble to get started.
On one occasion the correspondents had decided not to
prepare for the scheduled week-end trip because the several
before had been called off. Then with about half an hour to
spare they were told to be ready. They had been in the habit
of taking a small supply of bootleg liquor with them, because
it was always a dull week end at the small hotel at Culpeper
near the President's camp where they stayed. This time they
were not prepared, and one of them made a hurry-up call
to the bootlegger.
"Bring two gallons of alcohol and gin drops to the White
House right away," he ordered.
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone,
and then a startled voice said: "I can't do that. It's a peni
tentiary offense to take it to your house. God knows what it
would be to take it to the White House!"
-142-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
"Don't worry/' the reporter said. "Just stop at the door
and tell the cop . . ."
"The cop! No!"
"Look, it's all right Tell the cop at the door that it's for
me. Ill fix it"
The bootlegger agreed only after being threatened with the
loss of a lucrative part of his business, and he later walked,
trembling and sweating, into the executive offices with a
police escort. He emptied his satchel in the pressroom and
departed, quietly but unbelievingly. I'm tempted to say Mr.
Hoover wouldn't have believed it either, because he knew
there was a law. But I don't think that would be correct. Mr.
Hoover was always well informed on Prohibition as well as
other issues, and my guess is that he believed the Eighteenth
Amendment to be a failure. The trouble was that his thinking
always seemed to me, anyway to be about a year ahead of
his acting.
Near the end of the Hoover administration, in the two-
hundredth year after George Washington's birth, Jimmy
Doolitde made an airmail flight that was of particular interest
to me, and furthermore it gives me a chance to talk about
stamp-collectors I knew, including a couple of Presidents.
Doolitde, then a major in the Army Air Force, duplicated the
route taken by Washington from New England, I believe, to
Virginia. The pilot, of course, covered in a few hours the
route that had taken Washington many days, and at each
place where Washington had halted overnight he dropped a
parachute 'bag of letters to be sent out from that post office.
It was strictly a cover-collector's dream.
"Dear Mr. President . . "
The reason I remember it was that a friend of mine, Philip
R. Hough, superintendent of the Washington Birthplace
National Monument, was an avid collector of covers and
stamps issued in connection with the Washington anni
versary, and wrote me a plaintive letter asking for help.
"Major Doolittle flew over here this morning and dropped
a package of mail to go out from this post office," he said, "but
of the thirty or forty letters there was none for this office"
that is, the National Monument "I noticed one for the
President, and suppose that they sent him others. If you have
any duplicates, I sure would like to have the one from here."
It happened that Mr. Hoover was also very much interested
in stamps and covers and had a fine collection, to which he
was constantly adding. I was reluctant to ask him to break
the set in order to provide one for Hough, but finally I did,
and he very graciously agreed when he learned that Hough's
collection was to be framed and left at the Monument as a
permanent exhibit.
Mr. Hoover was the first real stamp-collector in the White
House during my time. McKinley, T.R., Taft, Harding,
Coolidge, and Wilson had no particular interest in the dis
posal of stamps and we handled them however we saw fit.
Mr. Hoover, however, wanted a close watch kept for any
thing unusual to go into his collection, and kter of course
Franklin Roosevelt had a magnificent collection, which he
vastly increased during his years in the White House.
F.D.R. probably knew more about stamp-collecting than
any other President and enjoyed doing some of the work
himself. The State Department and our office saved every
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
foreign and commemorative stamp for Mm. Our system was
to lay them aside in a safe place instead of sending them over
to him as we received them. Then one day we knew we would
get a call and Mr. Roosevelt would say, "Where are my
stamps?" That meant he was going to take an evening off
to work over his albums and relax with tweezers and micro
scopes.
He selected only such stamps as he decided would properly
go into his collection, and always carefully returned the
others for distribution elsewhere. His stamp collection was
superior, I believe, even to his collection of ship models,
which was of very great value.
Long before the Hoover and Roosevelt administrations,
however, we had plenty of problems in connection with
stamp-collectors. I supplied many covers and foreign stamps
to private collectors at a time when the value of such col
lections was not generally recognized, and I have regretted
many times that I did not take advantage of the opportunity
to build up a collection of my own during the years when
nobody cared what became of used stamps.
Eventually we developed a system for handling the stamps,
because we realized that it was likely to become awkward if
we supplied some private collectors and refused others. As a
result we refused all private collectors some of whom
eventually offered considerable sums of money and dis
tributed stamps on a charitable basis as far as possible. During
and since World War II there was and is an organization
known as "Stamps for Veterans," which took stamps from our
office and distributed them to veterans* hospitals where
Mr. President . . ."
wounded men were encouraged to engage in this hobby as
a part of curative therapy. Earlier, a similar scheme had been
worked out in connection with the Civilian Conservation
Corps camps, with the help of the Interior Department.
But in addition to these arrangements I always managed
to keep a pretty fair collection of foreign and domestic stamps
in my desk, and when kids wrote in to the President asking
for stamps we were almost always able to send them some
thing or other. Actually that was the way I would have liked
to handle the whole stamp problem, but of course it wasn't
practical especially it wasn't practical if the President hap
pened to have a collection himself.
Well, as things went along Mr. Hoover of course didn't
have any time for stamp-collecting. He just kept working
harder, and the state of the nation seemed to keep getting
more and more uncomfortable. Or at least that's the way it
seemed to me, because I had one of the most uncomfortable
experiences of my career about that time in the latter half
of 1931, to be exact. For a while I thought it would mean the
end of my White House career when and if the Democrats
came into power.
The way it came about was this : Franklin Delano Roosevelt
was emerging as a strong figure in the Democratic camp in
the summer of 1931, and the Republicans had about decided
he was the man they would have to beat if they were to stay
in office. The political winds were blowing hard at the time,
and one of the issues of which Mr. Roosevelt was trying to
make political capital was a dispute over the proposed St.
Lawrence River Seaway, in which Canada was just as much
-146-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
interested as the United States. As Governor of New York,
which would be benefited by the seaway, Mr. Roosevelt
wrote to President Hoover asking for information as to the
status of negotiations with Canada. The fate of this letter
at a time when political controversy was growing bitter
throughout the country touched off a strange sequence of
events of vital interest to me.
The villain in the case, from my viewpoint, was Time
magazine, which on August 31, 1931, referred to the Roosevelt
letter and said:
When you write, address and mail a letter to President Herbert
Hoover, The White House, Washington, D.C., it goes not to him,
but to Ira Smith. Mr. Smith has a mustache. He sits at a big desk
in the outer executive offices. . . . All day long he opens letters,
scans them through gold-rimmed glasses. If your letter looks very
important, he routes it to Private Secretary Theodore Joslin who
may put it before the President. . . , [But] the chances are
1,000-to-l against the President's ever seeing your letter at all
. . . Presumably the letter [from Mr. Roosevelt] went to Ira
Smith and thereafter was reported "lost" . . . When it did finally
turn up with an answer at the State Department, much explain
ing was necessary.
I read the article with surprise and consternation surprise
because I could not remember having seen the letter and
consternation because it suggested that my office had been
responsible for a blunder that would have very unfavorable
political repercussions for the President, I made inquiries
and discovered that my understudy, in my absence, had
opened the letter from Governor Roosevelt, read it, and
properly sent it to Mr. Hoover. The President directed that
-147-
"Dear Mr. President . . /'
the letter be sent to the Secretary of State, with a request for
information upon which to base a reply. When the letter
reached the State Department, Acting Secretary William R.
Castle was hurrying out of his office to catch a train for a
short holiday at Hot Springs, Virginia. It is probable that he
shoved the letter into his pocket, dashed away and presum
ably forgot about it.
Castle, I suppose, discovered belatedly that the letter had
not been answered. Just when this occurred I do not know,
but the Acting Secretary was obviously in an awkward
position. What to do? Castle had known Mr. Roosevelt for
a long time, and he finally wrote him directly instead of re
turning the letter and the requested information to Mr.
Hoover. This he did addressing the Governor as "Dear
Frank," and stating that no negotiations were then in prog
ress with Canada. The result was to make it appear, how
ever erroneously, that Mr. Roosevelt had suffered an affront
because his letter to the President had been answered by
someone else.
Had Time magazine been correct in stating that the letter
was reported 'lost" after it came to me, my job would have
ended right then. The President could not have excused me
if I had carelessly sent such a letter to the State Department
in the first place, and thus contributed to a situation that re
acted unfavorably against Mr. Hoover. Nor would Mr.
Roosevelt have forgotten it The handling of the letter was
an unhappy political blunder, but not on the part of the
White House mail room.
As a matter of record, Mr. Roosevelt did not forget the
-148-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
incident. When lie moved into the White House after the
election, one of his early questions was, "How about this man
Ira Smith?" He first asked Admiral Gary Grayson, who ex
pressed confidence in me. That did not entirely satisfy the
President, however, and he later discussed my work with
Col. Edmund Starling, head of the White House Secret
Service. Starling reassured him, and Mr. Roosevelt finally
dropped the matter when he had learned the full story.
When Mr. Hoover left the White House for good, we felt
that we were witnessing the departure of an able and brilliant
executive who had played into more hard luck than any
President in many years. The personal files of the President,
which were removed to his home at Palo Alto, contained a
remarkable record of hard work and scientific planning that
the public never heard much about. One reason they didn't
hear about it was that a great hullabaloo was being raised
about a coming attraction that was to turn the White House
upside down for quite a few years. It was something called
the New Deal.
-149-
CHAPTER TEN
WHEN FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT BROUGHT THE NEW
Deal into the White House during the great depression,
it seemed as if everyone in the country was looking for a job
except the new President and me. Both of us had our hands
full, and then some.
During the last days of the Hoover administration the
White House had been becalmed in a period of waiting, and
my job of handling the President's mail had been compara
tively routine, with only a few hundred letters a day coming
in. With the arrival of F.D.R., we suddenly had action, new
faces and Roosevelts all over the place, and so many tons
of mail that, as I will explain later, we had to establish an
entire new system for handling it.
Mr. Roosevelt always showed a keen interest in the mail
and kept close watch on its trend. Nothing pleased him more
than to know that I had to build up a big staff and often had
to work until midnight to keep up with a run of SOCK) to 8000
letters a day, and on some occasions many more thousands.
He received regular reports on what was coming in, and
frequently we sent him unusual letters, from which, with
"Dear Mr. President . . "
a fine knack for publicity, he would pick out material for
newspaper stories.
Whenever there was a decrease in the influx of letters we
could expect to hear from him or one of his secretaries, who
wanted to know what was the matter was the President los
ing his grip on the public? Everybody in the executive offices
was keenly aware of the value of good public relations, and
there was a lot of emphasis on proper handling of letters and
of information for the newspapers.
Steve Early, the press secretary, was the sort of expert who
could and did interrupt the President's talks with reporters
to order, "Don't say that,** or, "Don't answer that," and make
it stick. But not everybody could be as experienced or as
skillful in saying the right thing at the right time, and fre
quently we had some amusing complications because of
the President's desire to show the greatest possible con
sideration to everyone who wrote to the White House in
those troubled days.
On one occasion a cement worker in California wrote to
Mr. Roosevelt and said that he had an exhibit of unusual
craftsmanship which he wanted the President to see. Miss
Margaret Le Hand, the President's personal secretary, wrote
a pleasant letter in reply and told him that Mr. Roosevelt
would be "interested in your exhibit"
Nobody gave it another thought until some weeks later,
when a stranger came into the office and told me he had
just arrived from California to erect an exhibit for the Presi
dent. He said he had the exhibit outside, and where could he
put it up? I went to the door and saw a huge truck pulled
up at the curb.
"Dear Mr. President . . /'
"Just Bold everything," I told him. I checked the corre
spondence, and talked to the man about the size of his
exhibit Then I advised Miss Le Hand that her invitation
had been accepted, and where did she want the exhibit put?
She finally arranged for him to use a hallway in the base
ment, and he began unloading large and complicated pieces
o cement that looked like a cross between the Lincoln
Memorial and a Coney Island roller-coaster.
He sweated and fussed around for a week, and finally put
together a structure that was about eight feet by eight feet
and reached almost to the ceiling. Apparently it was a castle
in miniature. It had electric lights, music by radio, bells,
chimes, and water that ran through the miniature rooms and
into moats and over falls illuminated by colored lights. He
had to use a network of hose and wires to get the thing into
operation, and fuses were always blowing out or the water
overflowed or something. The day he finally put it on display
we went over to look, and it was fantastically unreal, with
music playing, -bells ringing, lights flashing, and water swirl
ing all around.
Then it developed that the creator of this little number was
in real life the builder of elaborate fishpools and similar
decorative contrivances for gardens, and he wanted the
President to endorse his creation, which he hoped to put on
exhibition in various theaters. Mr. Roosevelt would not even
go to look at it, and it was eventually carted back to California
on a freight carat quite an expense to the builder, but to
the great relief of Miss Le Hand.
The cement castle seemed like quite a lot of excitement at
-152-
Mr. President . . /*
the time, but we soon learned to take such things in our
stride as the New Dealers got down to business. There were
Roosevelts and in-laws all over the landscape from then on.
Nice, friendly people, too. Always something going on.
The thing that was going on most steadily was a stream
of letters to F.D.R. demanding to know why in hel he didn't
put his foot down and stop this habit his wife had of being
constantly on the run somewhere or other and of always
poking around in other people's business. Tm. putting it
mildly, of course, because the persons who wrote letters of
that sort to the President were likely to use the most violent
language.
IVe heard various suggestions as to Mr. Roosevelt's re
action to these letters, and I feel sure that he valued his wif e*s
firsthand knowledge of conditions. But it always seemed to
me that Mrs. Roosevelt was going to lead her own life in
her own way and there was not much the President or anyone
else could say other than "What can I do about it?**
Mrs. Roosevelt got a huge mail, and there was much more
approval of her actions than disapproval She was always
being asked for something or to do something or to intervene
with the President. Many, many times she did pass along
suggestions to various department heads and Cabinet mem
bers, and of course she helped a lot of people get jobs. After
she started writing the newspaper column "My Day/* her
mail increased, and she had to build up a separate staff to
handle it. Eventually, it included about a dozen girls and
several men. I had to assign one of my clerks just to handle
the letters that her staff referred to me concerning matters
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
that were strictly the business of various departments, to
which we forwarded them.
The real crisis came, however, over one of the most famous
of the Roosevelt clan the little bkck Scotty named Falla.
We first saw Falla when Buzzie and Sistie Dall sometimes
played up and down the halls with the dog in pursuit. They
reminded me of the Teddy Roosevelt days, but not so noisy.
There were stories about Falla in the newspapers, and soon
letters began coming in for the dog. They were, I believe, the
most sickening letters that ever got into the White House
mail Some woman with a dog would sit down and compose
the damnedest pap as if her little doggie were writing to the
President's little doggie, and it was enough to make you ill.
When the Falla letters began arriving in large numbers, most
of them "signed" with a dog's footprint, I rebelled. I sent all
Falla correspondence over to Mrs. Roosevelt's social secretary,
unopened.
"Ill take plenty/' I said, *l>ut I refuse to be a dog's
secretary.'*
I didn't have anything against FaHa, but the best dogs
around the White House were the Roosevelts* Irish setters.
They were beauties, and they sometimes liked to stretch out
beside the President's desk, lying quietly but alert, when he
had visitors* They were there during one little affair we at
tended in his office, and I spoke to Mr. Roosevelt about them
merely because we didn't have anything else to talk about
while waiting for the other guests to come in.
"Have those setters ever been hunted, Mr. President?" I
asked.
-154-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
I supposed he was going to say no, but Mrs. Roosevelt
didn't give him a chance. She had overheard my question
and obviously thought I was going to suggest something.
She leaned over toward me and said, with considerable
emphasis;
"No, and they're never going to be hunted either. They're
household pets."
Mrs. Roosevelt was the most written-about and the most
written-to First Lady, but she took it all in her stride, and I
doubt that she ever lost her temper over anything critical
that was ever said about her. She was too busy being herself.
Of all the new presidential aides, Louis Howe was prob
ably the most unusual; certainly he was the strangest presi
dential secretary I ever knew. He was, of course, so ill that
he would not last long, and he seemed to realize it A slight,
thin-faced man, he never wasted a word or a motion. He ob
viously tried to conserve his waning strength and never
lifted a hand around the office if he could avoid it. He didn't
even sign all his own letters. He mostly seemed to fust sit and
watch and listen, and I suppose he was Mr. Roosevelt's most
valuable adviser. Without seeming to do anything, Howe kept
close track of everything that went on. Even our mental
attitudes. Once his secretary wandered into my office, possibly
on Howe's instructions, and in the course of a chat asked me
what I really thought of the President
Now I considered Mr. Roosevelt one of the most remark
able men I had ever seen operating at close range, and all
of us were glad to see that at last we were getting some action
around the White House. But her question obviously was a
-155-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
bit more personal. My impression at that time was that the
President was always playing his part like a good actor. He
was jovial, chatty, and informal, and this struck me as an
almost professional attitude of good-fellowship. He could
turn on his dazzling smile as if somebody had pressed a
button and sent a brilliant beam from a lighthouse out across
the sea shining on whatever ship happened to be there. I
never felt, as I suppose most people did, that there was any
thing particularly personal about his manner toward me.
And why should there have been?
So I merely said, "The President seems to be the most
politic man I ever saw."
She looked at me in amazement and then bristled with
indignation. She stoutly denied that my observation was
even partly correct. She obviously felt that whenever Mr.
Roosevelt gave her a pleasant look it was something very
specially reserved for her, and I think the President had the
ability to make that impression on most persons, both great
and small. I don't mean that his friendliness was insincere.
I mean it was just a charming, almost irresistible knack that
he used, perhaps, subconsciously.
He could even do it over the radio, much to my distress.
When he advised millions of listeners in one of his fireside
chats to "tell me your troubles, 5 * most of them believed im
plicitly that he was speaking to them personally and im
mediately wrote him a letter. It was months before we
managed to swim out of that flood of mail.
The President's most prolific correspondents, strangely
enough, were two well-known characters who also called
-156-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
on him regularlySecretary of Interior Harold Ickes and
Secretary of Agriculture Henry Wallace. Both of them wrote
to Mr. Roosevelt frequently and lengthily. In fact, at one
time it got so we could expect a letter from Ickes on some
subject or other almost every day at three o'clock in the
afternoon presumably after he had wrestled with an idea at
the luncheon table and then had time to get it down on paper.
Ickes always impressed me as an outstanding Secretary
of Interior, but he couldn't possibly mind his own business.
His letters covered a wide field of subjects, and were
especially frequent during the period when Mr. Roosevelt
was pushing the Supreme Court "packing" bill. Wallace's
letters did not cover so wide a range, but had little to do
with his own department He wanted to run the State
Department by giving advice directly to the President on how
to handle foreign affairs.
Of all the Roosevelt advisers, I suppose the most disliked
was Harry Hopkins. I didn't care much for him myself, but
I developed a sort of grudging admiration for the way he
operated. He gave the impression of being sloppy, lazy, in
different, and sometimes ruthless. That impression was not
very accurate. Like Louis Howe, he was desperately ill and
needed to conserve his strength. He would listen to a long
discussion of some problem without saying a word or giving
any sign of interest. Then he would settle the matter with
perhaps one sentence or merely a nod in answer to a question.
Usually settled it for good, too.
Another person who made his appearance around the
White House during the Roosevelt days was George Allen,
-157-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
whom F.D.R. made a Commissioner for tlie District of
Columbia. One day Allen passed word along that the Presi
dent had agreed to permit use of his name by the National
Foundation for Infantile Paralysis, of which Basil O'Connor
was head. He said a little stunt had been arranged to raise
money for the Foundation in connection with the President's
birthday, and that it was being suggested on two radio shows
Eddie Cantor and the Lone Ranger that people send dimes
for the Foundation to the White House as contributions.
"It's all very unofficial, of course, but keep your eyes open,"
Allen said. "You may get a trickle of dimes in the mail."
It was a remark 111 never forget Both Cantor and the Lone
Ranger did talk about the campaign on their shows, and the
Lone Ranger urged kids to send a dime each to the President
for use in fighting infantile paralysis. Two days later the roof
fell in on me. We had been handling about 5000 letters a
day at that time. We got 80,000 on the day the March of
Dimes began producing. We got 50,000 the next day. We got
150,000 the third day. We kept on getting incredible num
bers, and the Government of the United States darned near
stopped functioning because we couldn't clear away enough
dimes to find the official White House mail.
I screamed for help as soon as my staff could get the bags
full of dimes piled up enough to let me get out of the office.
We got fifty extra postal clerks, but we still couldn't find
anything but scrawled and finger-marked envelopes from
every kid who could get his hands on a dime. Picking out the
President's official mail was like looking for a needle in a
haystack. Replies to invitations that Mrs. Roosevelt had sent
-158-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
out for a formal dinner were buried under tens of thousands
of letters from all over the United States and Canada. She
didn't get them until two weeks after the dinner,
We began sending bags of mail to the offices of the various
presidential secretaries, and they dug into them in searcrh for
important letters they were expecting. Judge Rosenman
abandoned writing the President's speeches and began sort
ing mail. Mrs. James Roosevelt volunteered to help. The
stenographers and anybody else available spent all then-
spare time fumbling through huge stacks of letters, many of
the staff voluntarily working hours of overtime without pay*
The offices, desks, and corridors were stacked with mail
sacks, and we had to put police on special duty each night
when we finally closed up and went wearily home.
It was days before we began to restore some kind of
routine and it was four months before we had cleaned up the
debris. Being completely inexperienced in such enterprises^
we had to devise a special set-up to handle the 2,680,000
dimes that rolled in during the campaign.
The first wave of response in 1938 was largely from chil
dren, because the Lone Ranger had emphasized the idea of
putting a dime in an envelope and sending it to the President.
Every time we emptied a mailbag $8 or $10 worth of loose
coins that had cut through the envelopes would fall out
Then, as the idea grew, dimes were sent in all sorts of ways
that caused additional work. I developed a deep bitterness
toward persons who used scotch tape to stick coins on a card.
Every dime we received that way had to be washed in a
special solution we finally found fire-extinguisher fluid was
-159-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
best before the Treasury would accept it Once we got 100
yards of dimes in scotch tape.
Other dimes were received in a wax design the size of a
football. We had to boil it down. Thousands were baked
into birthday cakes. Once we had to break up a concrete brick
loaded with coins. A woman who wanted to contribute but
had no money had her hair cut off and sent it in with the
suggestion that we sell it. It brought eighty dimes. We re
ceived an aluminum cane made of hollow tubing into which
were jammed 650 dimes. A gallon can containing $300 arrived
from a bomber squadron.
One donor punched a hole in a dime (making it worthless)
and tied it with twine to a huge cardboard tag labeled ''The
White House." I sent it around for Mr. Roosevelt to see. He
kept the dime and returned the card with a new dime to go
in the collection and a note saying, "I hope you have a good
dime.'* One of the clerks kept the President's dime to give to
his grandchild as a memento, putting another in its place.
I didn't tell him that, as usual, Mr. Roosevelt had no money
in his pocket and that his secretary had furnished the
memento coin.
During the big rush of dime mail one of our biggest jobs
was just counting the money, but kter we merely weighed it
after separating the silver from the checks and currency. Then
I would send it over to the Treasury in an armored car with
two Secret Service men carrying tommy guns and they would
give me currency to turn over to the Foundation. Later we
got an army truck with a guard to deliver the silver. The
campaign grew in later years and we received more than
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
$1,500,000 in 1945, when there were larger contributions and
not so many letters as in the first year.
People still kept thinking up spectacular ways to deliver
dimes, however. In one publicity stunt, 600,000 dimes were
sent under guard from Los Angeles, where they had been
contributed by listeners to a radio breakfast program. The
trip cost $670, whereas a check could have been mailed
for 3 cents. Upon arrival, the people in charge wanted to
present the coins personally to Mr. Roosevelt. Part of the
silver was put on the elevator, but the load was too much
and it wouldn't move. The publicity stunt was a bit over
loaded, too, and ended at that point.
After the first year, we made special preparations for the
March of Dimes, taking on extra clerks in January and keep
ing them until we cleaned up the work in March, but I never
saw George Allen after that without a shudder, A "trickle
of dimes/* indeed!
After Mr. Roosevelt had the executive offices rebuilt to
provide more room there was a basement under all of the
structure except the Cabinet room and a part of the Presi
dent's office. The rest of his office was directly over a store
room which divided in the middle by a wire partition, thus
forming a cage where we put many of the thousands of odd
gifts that came to the White House. A ventilator leading to
the President's office was inside the wire cage, which was
securely locked.
One day the Secret Service men came to me and said they
were worried about the ventilator, which opened outside
the building. It might, they said, occur to some crank to
-161-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
plant a bomb in the ventilator, since it was under the Presi
dent's desk They said It had been decided to make some
structural changes to eliminate the possibility. They took a
key to the cage and in the next day or so workmen arrived
and began making changes. The next time I went into the
cage I took a look at what they had done. A wooden partition
about five feet by four had been constructed from floor to
ceiling. It had a door that was securely padlocked. I was
curious about it, because it was the strangest bomb-preven
tion device I could imagine.
One of the President's most skillful stenographers did his
work in the basement offices near my desk and had a key to
the wire cage. I noticed that he frequently went to the cage,
and one day when I was there he came out of the little room.
The door was open and I saw a small desk and a chair in
side. I nodded to the stenographer.
"OK," I said, "got a machine in there, eh?"
He laughed. "I was just getting some reports from up
stairs," he said.
I didn't say anything more, but I noticed that the stenog
rapher frequently went to the little room, where he obviously
took down whatever conversation went on in the President's
office. We never discussed it, and I guess my staff kept on
believing the Secret Service story about bomb prevention.
Contacts around the White House were free and easy
during the New Deal, and the Roosevelts were always
thoughtful of the staff. The President received hundreds of
birthday cakes each year, and he would pick out one of the
grandest and invite everybody in for tea. Mrs. Roosevelt
-162-
Mr. President . . ?
usually came too, and sometimes brought her own guests.
The President seemed to enjoy these breaks in the routine
more than anyone else, and he made everybody feel at
home.
On one occasion when the cake was brought in he re
marked that it was a particularly handsome one. On the top
was a coach with six horses molded in spun sugar. Then, with
a twinkle in his eye, the President turned to Gus Gennerich,
a Secret Service man, and said in a commanding voice:
"Gus, bring me George Washington's sword that I may cut
this cake!"
Everybody loved it, and the girls all gasped, but when It
came to cutting the fruit cake the President used an ordinary
knife. Most of the girls on the staff secretly wrapped their
slices of cake in their handkerchiefs to take home as souvenirs.
I ate mine. It was very tasty.
There was always about Mr. Roosevelt a kind of infectious
confidence and buoyancy that was felt by those who worked
with him, and even by those who saw him only occasionally.
But during the terrible years of World War II there was a
drastic change both in the President and in the atmosphere
around the White House. Mr. Roosevelt soon became ab
sorbed in the long-range war and postwar problems, and
gave less and less attention to immediate political and
governmental questions at home. Matters that he would have
handled personally during his first two terms were frequently
delegated to subordinates, and this led to blunders, quarrels,
and misunderstandings. Many letters, particularly from mem
bers of Congress, came to the White House in those days
-163-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?*
complaining that affairs of political importance were being
neglected or were being bungled in strange contrast to the
White House operations before the war.
It has always seemed to me that Mr. Roosevelt's with
drawal from such matters in order to devote himself to the
war problems may have opened the way for later charges that
Communist-minded persons had infiltrated into government
positions. The President was too astute a politican in normal
times to fail to foresee and halt conditions that later gave
rise to Congressional investigation of alleged Communist
spying. But in the war days Mr. Roosevelt was preoccupied,
and inclined to shove such matters aside in favor of grandiose
global planning.
This was true before we actually got into the war, but
when Pearl Harbor came, the trend was drastically inten
sified- There was also a sudden change in all White House
affairs. A bomb shelter was built underground at the east end
of the White House and everybody got a gas mask. We were
lectured by Army officers and had regular air-raid drills.
Everybody had to keep his gas mask on his desk, and every
so often the fire gongs would ring the air-raid alarm and we
would assemble in specified offices for drill. My office was
one of the assembly points and I was in charge there, which
meant that I had a gas mask I could talk through. Nobody
eke could talk through his gas mask. It was rather pleasant
on those occasions.
Soldiers were moved into the barracks south of the old
State Department Building and a guard line was established
around the White House. At intervals a patrol, fully armed,
-164-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
would march around the yard changing the guard, which was
maintained day and night.
The wartime secrecy and precautions for protection of the
President added considerably to our work, especially since
many new figures, both military and civilian, were suddenly
thrust to the foreground of governmental affairs. A good num
ber of them had strange ideas about what should be "top
secret" or "for the eyes of the President only." This was
especially true of the State Department, which was overrun
with young squirts who thought that anything that passed
through their hands or was received in code was too secret
for anyone but the Chief Executive to see. It took us quite a
while to convince them that it would be all right for us to
handle translations of birthday messages and similar com
munications from foreign dignitaries, even in wartime.
Every White House employee was checked by the Secret
Service or the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and if there
was the slightest suspicion of any person, that person was
removed or transferred. We had one girl of foreign descent
in our office who caused some concern. One day the Secret
Service came around and asked me to hold out any mail she
received at the office.
"There's something funny going on," I was told. "This girl
has been using White House stationery to write to a fellow
in New York who has connections with the I. G. Farben outfit
in Germany ?
I don t know what else the Secret Service did in investigat
ing that case, but they certainly watched her mail. They even
went through the wastebasket by her desk every evening
-165-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
after she left the office, and that is where they finally struck
pay dirt. One evening they found the wastebasket full of
half -written letters to the man, all of them crumpled up into
balls. When they were smoothed out and read it was obvious
that she had been having a quarrel with the New Yorker,
and just as obvious that she was trying to compose a love
letter that would patch things up. Either that, or she was
using an interesting code language. As far as I know, the only
thing the Secret Service discovered was an unsuspected love
affair. But just to be on the safe side the girl was transferred
anyway without ever knowing that she had been the object
of investigation.
The tenor of mail to the President changed, too, after Pearl
Harbor. I recall that before we got into World War I many
pro-German letters came to the White House. There were
pro-Germans on the White House staff at that time, too, and
they didn't hesitate to express their opinions, because most
Americans considered the European struggle begun in 1914
to be of no concern to us as a nation. But World War II
found Mr. Roosevelt strongly opposed to the Axis from the
beginning, and this position was reflected in the mail. There
were many protests against war in general, but letters favor
ing the Axis were few and far between, while large numbers
of persons wrote in to praise the President or to urge that he
take a still stronger stand.
After Pearl Harbor, there was a flood of letters and tele
grams urging the President not to "get excited" and not to
"rush headlong into war/' but by the time these arrived we
were already at war and the mail room was overburdened
with angry letters demanding elimination of the Japanese and
"Dear Mr. President . . . ?>
offering the writers* services in the war effort. At this time
somebody spread the idea that the Government needed fine
human hair in the manufacture o precision instruments such
as bombsights, and we received contributions enough to make
a rope stretching from Washington to Berlin. We sent them
over to the Bureau of Standards, which probably dumped
them in the wastebasket. Large sums of money also were
sent in, usually in very small amounts, with letters urging
the Government to use the money for bullets to be fired in
the war against the Japanese. All such funds were turned
over to the Treasury.
The strain on the President and those close to him some
times seemed almost unbearable in the early days of the war,
but Mr. Roosevelt stood up under it better than almost any
one else. We saw him less often because of the tight wartime
regulations and the pressure of his work, but during the first
year he merely seemed a bit older and, naturally, less jovial.
But after that it began to be apparent that his condition was
deteriorating, and there was a good deal of concern about
his health before the 1944 election campaign when he began
to suffer from periodic colds and failed to bounce back as
rapidly as in the past
People began writing in to ask about his condition, -but the
official position of the White House was always reassuring,
as perhaps it should be in such circumstances. I would not,
of course, pretend to any knowledge of medicine, but
strictly from the viewpoint of a layman who occasionally
saw the President it seemed to me that Mr. Roosevelt^ health
was far from robust.
There was, naturally, an inclination to 'be reassuring and
"Dear Mr. President . . ?*
to avoid causing alarm. Furthermore, the state of the Presi
dent's health was of tremendous importance in international
affairs at a critical point in world history. These things ob
viously entered into the reassuring White House and other
authoritative statements, but we of the staff knew the Presi
dent was not his old self.
In January, at the beginning of F.D.R/s fourth term, my
wife and I received a note from Presidential Secretary
Early inviting us to attend a Service of Intercession on the
twentieth. We arrived at the White House that Saturday just
as General of the Army George C. Marshall and his wife went
in ? and we were all taken immediately to the East Room,
where rows of chairs had been arranged in a semicircle. The
ladies of the Roosevelt family sat together just in front of us,
each of them carrying a bouquet of violets. Mrs. Roosevelt* s
was enormous and the perfume was strong in the room. The
choir from St. John's Church was massed near the big
windows, where their robes made a warm spot of color
among the display of flags.
The President sat in the center of the front row and
beside him or behind him were the great names of his ad
ministrationthe great names of a bitter war that was just
turning toward a day when victory could no longer be
denied. It was a friendly gathering, yet solemn and full of
portent, as if these men realized that the tragic years of war
now nearing an end were only the beginning of the test our
country must face. Mr. Roosevelt must have thought, too,
of his impending journey to the Yalta Conference.
The choir sang "O God, our help in ages past ... be
-168-
"Dear Mr. President . . ? y
Thou our guide/ 1 and there were prayers for the President of
the United States and for our country and for our enemies
and for victory.
When the services ended, we stood very silent for a mo
ment and then for a few moments more as we waited for
the President to depart. But he made no move. His wheel
chair was brought in by an attendant but, almost impatiently,
he motioned it away. Everyone watched and waited, and still
the President remained in his chair. His daughter Anna turned
to face us and smiled. With a little shrug she seemed to say,
"Well, he has something on his mind."
Finally, without a word, Mr. Roosevelt turned as if he had
awakened from a deep reverie and beckoned to us. We all
seemed to understand what he wanted and we formed a line
that filed past him so that he could shake hands with each
one. When I stepped close to him I was shocked to see how
tired and ill he looked, how gray and old and thin he had
become. He didn't say anything. Just shook hands.
The death of Mr. Roosevelt at Warm Springs, however, was
a shock to all of us. I had been inclined to draw a comparison
with the illness of Woodrow Wilson and to fear that the
President's health would continue to decline gradually. The
news flash from Warm Springs therefore was as much a sur
prise to us as to the rest of the world. For weeks after
Mr. Roosevelt died we received letters demanding an in
vestigation of his death and suggesting that there had been
foul play, but of course none of them was based on any
knowledge of the facts.
After the funeral, Mrs. Roosevelt asked all the staff to
"Dear Mr. President . . .**
come around on April 20 to say good-by. Mrs. Boettiger,
James Roosevelt and Ms wife, and Faye Emerson Roosevelt
were with her. When we returned to our desks, each of us
found there one of the countless little trinkets with which the
President had always littered his own desk. Mrs. Roosevelt
had sent them around as mementos. Mine was a little gray
donkey.
-170-
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AGKEAT MANY WOMEN AS WELL AS MEN, I IMAGINE, HAVE
dreamed and schemed of tow to get to live in the White
House, and some of them have been unpleasantly surprised
and disappointed when they made the grade. The disappoint
ment was political or social in some instances, but most
First Ladies have suffered varying degrees of unhappiness
about the deplorable condition of the White House and their
inability to get anything done about it.
It's an uncomfortable old mansion. It always needs repairs.
It was once infested "with rats, some rooms were so damp
that the paper peeled, it had an antique heating system, and
when the Harry Trumans moved in it was clear that some
thing had to be done or one of these days the roof would fall
in. No wonder new occupants were often surprised and dis
appointed.
It remained, however,, for the Harry Trumans to reverse
the procedure of the past. They were not eager in the begin
ning to take up residence in the White House, and Mrs. Bess
Truman especially was not highly excited by the prospect of
social or political goings-on. They felt they had been thrust
-171-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
by fate into the old mansion, and they seemed to expect the
worst Naturally, it wasn't as bad as all that. But the interest
ing thing to me was that it was the Trumans who finally did
something about the White House. That was, in its own way,
quite an achievement for any President
The condition of the presidential mansion as I have in
dicated before, was a disgrace to the nation when I first went
to Washington during the McKinley administration, and
despite various changes and repairs, it remained in a more or
less disgraceful state right up to the time I retired in 1948.
At the turn of the century, the walls of the place were con
stantly damp, the floors were warped, and the stairs were
creaky and rickety. I remember once when one of the famous
billiard champions of the day was invited to give an ex
hibition at the White House. He arrived eager and willing,
but the table in the billiard room had been so nearly ruined
by dampness that he could scarcely drive a ball around it.
He soon gave up the attempt.
The mansion was not called the White House officially in
those days, but was known as the Executive Mansion, because
it contained the crowded presidential offices as well as the
living quarters of the President's family. It was adjacent to
low swampy ground that ran down to the Potomac, and a
rainy spell would bring water up as high as what is now
Constitution Avenue. The mosquitoes flourished in the stand
ing water along the flats between the mansion and the river,
and the neighborhood was so unhealthy that White House
grounds police had to be shifted at regular intervals because
so many developed malaria. The President, however, didn't
have anybody to shift with.
"Dear Mr. President . . *
A few changes in the White House and the grounds are
naturally made with every administration, but in McKInley's
time all efforts to get Congress to appropriate needed funds
for repairs were futile, and almost nothing was done. The
only changes I recall were the removal of the sentry box that
had stood on the grounds since the Civil War, when it was
built to shelter guards on cold nights, and the filling in of a
cistern that Mrs. Rutherford Hayes had had built on the
southeast corner of the White House. The cistern had an
engine to pump drinking water to the private apartments
upstairs, and was considered quite a fancy addition to the
place during the Hayes administration.
But even if the McKinleys couldn't get anything done, they
got a great many suggestions for tearing down the mansion
and building a new one on higher ground. Mrs. Mary Foote
Henderson, whose husband had been a Senator, carried on
quite a vigorous campaign in 1898 for a new mansion on
Meridian Hill, where it was proposed to develop large
terraces and gardens that would overlook the city. There were
a lot of suggestions for other sites then and later, but they
never got anywhere, and I guess George Washington's
original choice of a building lot wasn't so bad after all,
because none of the tenants I knew ever threatened to break
the lease on 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
Teddy Roosevelt got something done when lie became
President, including the building of the executive-offices
wing, but he came in for a lot of criticism by newspapers that
regarded the changes as contrary to the original architectural
conception. The Washington Post described the wing as "a
wart on the White House/' and various political foes of the
"Dear Mr. President , . !*
President took up the criticism in Congress and elsewhere.
T.R., however, had studied the old plans of the mansion, and
the repairs and changes that were undertaken then were in
line with the original plans. He went right ahead without
paying much attention to his critics. The greenhouse was
eliminated and became a passageway to the offices. The old
glass partition in the main lobby of the mansion was taken
away, and the old staircases were removed to make way for a
grand staircase at the east end of the corridor. These changes
made the place look better, but they did nothing much about
the roof or the floor supports in die living quarters, which
were to become a problem later.
There was a lot of mail at the time in favor of or opposing
the changes in the mansion, and I was amazed by the interest
people everywhere took in the preservation of historic build
ings. For the most part, the writers were perfectly willing for
the presidential family to be as comfortable as possible, but
not at the sacrifice of a national shrine.
The rumpus quieted down by the time Mr. Taft was
President, and he had no trouble in getting authorization to
double the size of the executive offices to take care of our
greatly expanded staff. There were some roof and attic re
pairs made during the Coolidge administration, but on
Christmas Eve of 1929, during Mr. Hoover's term, fire gutted
the interior of the offices and did great damage. We were in
a state of confusion for months after that, and for a while
my desk was a billiard table in the basement of the mansion.
The offices were remodeled by F.D.R. and the working
space about tripled. A new kitchen, a carpenter shop, and
-174-
"Dear Mr. President . . .**
storage vaults under the north porch and the roadway were
installed, and the east-wing offices were added for police, pro
tective research for the Secret Service, and Mrs. Roosevelt* s
correspondence section.
Mr. Truman wanted to do some additional construction,
including an auditorium and a cafeteria, on the west end of
the executive office, as well as offices for various administra
tive assistants, but somebody talked about it carelessly to
the reporters and the old cry of "destroying" the historic
White House was raised again. It was a pretty vicious cam
paign while it lasted, with the Washington newspapers for
the most part attacking the plans.
Mr. Truman already had the reluctant approval o the
Fine Arts Commission and an appropriation from Congress,
but so much fuss was raised that Congress finally revoked
the appropriation, although work had already started. The
result was a lot of confusion around the executive offices and
a lot more inconvenience, but the thing that I rather liked was
that the President didn't let his critics get him down. He
came right back with plans for the famous balcony on the
White House itself, and put it through in the face of the most
bitter opposition from experts who accused him of making
a farce of the original architectural plans.
Not many persons realize how keen a student of history
Mr. Truman has been for many years, and in this instance he
demonstrated that he knew more about the original plans
than the experts did. He produced evidence that the original
drawing for the mansion provided for just the sort of balcony
he had built, but his evidence didn't come out until after
Mr. President . . ?
the big newspaper rumpus over the Truman porch had died
down, and so, few people realized that the President was
an easy winner in the argument To say nothing of getting
a place where he can take his ease after a hard day's work
running the country.
After Mr, Truman had finally forced die issue on White
House repairs and Congress was ready to spend $1,000,000
fixing things up, the real story began to come out Engineers
discovered that it was a miracle that the place hadn't fallen
down long ago. The structural deficiencies were so great that
they would have caused any other building to have been con
demned as a menace. Only a two-inch beam kept the Presi
dent's private bathroom from tumbling into the basement
For years, the experts discovered, the most famous figures in
the nation and in the world had been standing frequently
under the heavy ornamental ceiling of the famous East Room,
which was likely to fall at any time. It had been completely
loosened from the beams and was held up only by nails.
Well, after having spent many thousands of hours in the
place during the last half century, I was happy to take my
hat off to Mr. Truman for getting something done about it.
The President gave an impression of wanting to get things
done from the first day that he came to the White House,
although he certainly was far from confident He asked the
staff into his office, and it was a shock after so many years
of F.DJL, to see the pkce denuded of its ship models, flags,
trophies, and trinkets. Mr. Truman was pleasant and business
like, and urged us to do as well for him as we had for Mr.
Roosevelt
"Dear Mr. President . . r
There was a change, however, in the atmosphere around
the White House. Mr. Truman's self-styled chief secretary,
Ed McEom, seemed constantly to be worrying about whether
the staff was capable of "Tceeping things confidential** some
thing we had been doing satisfactorily for a good many years.
McKim brought in a couple of special investigators who had
worked for the Truman Committee in the Senate and had
them check on whether the White House office set-up was
airtight Nothing happened on whatever they may have re
ported, but McKim moved on to another job after a short
time.
Before he went, however, I showed him how the mail room
operated one day, and later he visited the special staff that
had handled Mrs. Roosevelt's mail.
"So this is *My Day/ eh?" McKim remarked sardonically,
in reference to Mrs. Roosevelt's newspaper column. **Well,
that day is gone."
He fired the whole staff and abolished the separate office
that had been sat up to assist Mrs. Roosevelt. It didn't stick,
however. Mrs. Truman heard about it and went to the Presi
dent. Part of the staff was hired back and kept on han
dling Mrs. TrrnnaiTs mail, which ran quite heavy at the
time.
We appreciated Mrs. Truman's attitude and, in an unusual
way, we had a chance later to do something for her. She
came to me one day not long before the President's birthday
and said that there was nothing that gave Mr. Truman more
pleasure than opening his own presents. She understood that
the Secret Service detail had a rule that all packages had to
-177-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
be inspected before they were delivered to the President, but
she wondered whether, in this case, there was some way . . .
I said I thought we might find some way, but I couldn't
promise anything.
There are a number of rules to be observed in handling the
White House mail, especially packages, as will be explained
later. In this case we interpreted the regulations loosely.
Among the gifts arriving were many neckties sent in honor
of the former haberdasher of Independence, Missouri, We
put them under the luoroscope and okayed them without
opening the packages. There were other parcels of which we
were doubtful, but most of them we were able to open and
reseal so that they did not appear to have been tampered
with. We turned over to Mrs. Truman quite a batch of birth
day presents that appeared to be fresh from the mail track.
I don't believe the President ever caught on. He tore off the
wrappers with enthusiasm, and had a big time that day.
People everywhere seemed to want to send Mr. Truman
some token of goodwill when he became President. There
are always many gifts coming to the White House, some of
them from persons who are trying to advertise some article
they have for sale and some of them in the category of freak
gifts. In the case of Mr. Truman I have a list of gifts received
that provides an interesting catalogue of the peculiar pack
ages mailed to a President, It follows;
Kansas City, Mo. 3 sport shirts
Honolulu, Hawaii Gavel made of teakwood taken from
the damaged deck of the U.S.S.
Missouri
-178-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
New York, NX
Philadelphia, Pa.
Cascapedia, P.Q., Canada
New Orleans, La.
Rapid City, S.D.
Waterford, Erie, Pa.
Toledo, Ohio
Portland, Ore.
St. Louis, Mo.
Dion, N.Y.
Hope, Ark.
Menasha, Wis.
Sioux City, Iowa
St. Paul, Minn.
Lillington, N.C.
Duluth, Minn.
Dumbarton Center, NJEL
Centerville, Term.
Detroit, Mich.
San Diego, CaBf.
Dallas, Tex.
San Francisco, Calif.
San Francisco, Calif.
Long Island City, N.Y.
Durham, N.C.
Trinidad, B.W.I.
Nacona, Tex.
Kansas City, Kan.
Pittsburgh, Pa.
New Hampton, N.Y.
Miniature good-luck charm of the
"Surrender Spot" aboard the U.S.S.
Missouri
7 pairs of ladies* nylon hose
41-lb. salmon
Genuine panama hat
1 worn white shirt
Old $5 bfll printed in 1775
Model of "Jeep Fire Engine*"
8 Spanish onions
Pair of satin pajamas
Baby's diaper
Watermelon weighing 140 Ibs.
Fishing tackle
"Victory Apple" with a natural "V* on
its skin
Lawn mower
Yam weighing 6M Ibs.
Professional horseshoes
Metal Weeder
A small potato that had attached itself
to an old rusty hinge through natural
growth
Doll ( 14" tall) made to the likeness of
President Truman
Toy airplane
Walking cane
Caricature sketch of President Truman
6 bow ties
Gold-finished toilet seat
Basket carved from a peach stone
Live parrot
Pair of leather boots
Rabbit foot
Hand-knitted American flag
Miniature plastic piano
-179-
"Dear Mr. President . . .'"'
Bronxvffle, N.Y.
New York, N.Y.
Port Huron, Mich.
New York, N.Y.
Brooklyn, N.Y.
HigHand Park, Mick
South Bend, Ind.
Waterloo, Iowa
Philadelphia, Pa.
Phoenix, Ariz.
Centralia, Wash.
Brooklyn, N.Y.
St. Petersburg, Fla.
Tuckahoe, N.Y.
Lake Geneva, Wis.
Chicago, 111.
Washington, D.C.
Baltimore, Md.
Kansas City, Mo.
Los Angeles, Calif.
Wyoming, 111.
Kansas City, Mo.
Kankakee, 111
Guiuan, Sarnar, P.I.
Spokane, Wash.
New York, N.Y.
Mitchell, S.D.
Erie, Pa.
Small toy donkey made of wool
2 frozen pheasants
Rag rug
Nazi flag
Embroidered picture of President Tru
man
Floor lamp
Pair of miniature boxing gloves
Live turkey weighing 40 Ibs.
8 Missouri mule shoes
Pair of "Antsy Pants'* shorts
SmaE hand-carved jackass
Ukulele with instruction book on how
to play
Polished "swordfish snout" to be used
as paper-cutter
Hand-painted eggshell made in the
form of a vase
Box of assorted cheese
11 comic books
Caviar
Ice-cream telegram
Four-leaf clover
"Ant Village" (containing live ants)
Old baby shoe
Bugle used when President was in
Battery D, World War I
Smal model of dog hand carved from
a cake of soap
Japanese Army fighting flag
Rainbow trout weighing 23/s Ibs. "when
cleaned
Case of hair tonic
Corsage and pair of earrings (both
made from pheasant feathers)
Cherry pie weighing 44 Ibs.
-180-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
San Antonio, Tex. Miniature saddle
Brecksville, Ohio Fly swatter
Greenwood, Miss. Garbage can
Kansas City, Kan. Small model of an old-fashioned plow
Milwaukee, Wis. Hand-made Indian rug
Kent, OMo Hand-painted Easter egg
Curwensville, Pa. Two white kittens
Yaknna, Wash. Knitted woolen "jester's* 7 cap
Paris, France 2 loaves of French bread
Aguadflla, P.R. 3 pairs of lady's gloves
New York, N.Y. Game of chess
Athens, Greece Cigarettes, olives, and olive oil
It was quite a while before things began to get back to
normal under the Tramans. For some reason or other, Grace
Tully, who had been F.D.R/s personal secretary, was kept
sitting in idleness around the office for weeks. She finally de
parted after she had arranged to take along Mr. Roosevelt's
records for classification and deposit in the archives*
General Vaughan, the President's military aide, and Com
modore Vardaman, the naval aide, came up one day with
the idea that they would handle all the President's contacts
with veterans, presumably on the theory that there was
political gold in them Mils. Among other things, they ordered
that all mail from veterans and servicemen be turned over
to them instead of being forwarded to the various depart
ments for answer.
This gave me the only chuckle I had in several weeks. At
that time we were getting letters from veterans and service
men who wanted to know what had happened to their in
surance, when they would get a bonus, when was their dis-
-181-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
charge coming through, where could they get jobs, why
couldn't they get a house to live in, and where in hell was the
postwar world they had been told about? The next morning
I carefully laid out 600 such love notes from soldiers and
veterans and sent them around to General Vaughan. He took
one look and asked:
"How long have these been accumulating?"
That's just the morning mail/* he was told.
I must say the General reacted rapidly. Take 'em away/*
he ordered and that was the end of his handling the veterans*
mail. Commodore Vardaman heard about Vaughan's ex
perience and canceled his order for the mail from Navy
veterans before he even got the first batch.
On another occasion Vaughan brought around a friend of
his who was representative of a soft-drink company. He told
John Boardley, a Negro messenger, that a soft drink vending
machine was being installed in the office and that Boardley
was personally to handle it, collect the money, and make
regular accountings.
"General,"* Boardley said, TE can't do that IVe got too much
to do r
**YouTl do what I tell you/* the General replied.
Boardley went immediately to the executive clerk and sub
mitted his formal request for retirement, to which he was
then entitled. The executive clerk smoothed things over by
letting Boardley delegate the handling of the soft-drink
machine to another messenger.
The only time I ever had any trouble with the Secret
Service was after Mr. Truman made George Drescher, who
-182-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
had been his guard when he was Vice-President^ the head of
the White House detail. George was a joHy big fellow who
had always been easy to get along with. About this time, how
ever, I had arranged to remodel a garage in order to use it
as a receiving room for the mail department, and I had the
approval of Howard Grim, who was in charge of White House
buildings. Drescher apparently did not get along with Grim,
and he vetoed the plan, which had to be approved by the
Secret Service. I asked him way.
''Well/'' he said, "there might sometime be riots around
here and we would want to use that garage as a place in
which to conceal soldiers.**
This seemed to me to make very little sense, but we prob
ably never would have got the idea okayed by the Secret
Service if George had remained in that job. Before he left,
however, an amusing little thing happened.
On one occasion when Mrs. Truman was in Missouri., the
President sent around word that we were all invited to an
affair in the East Room. The Broadway comedians Olsen and
Johnson were the principal stars, and they went through their
zany stunts with enthusiasm, but failed in their efforts to get
Mr. Truman to play the piano. It was an uproarious occasion,
and it was the first time I had been in the East Room since
we attended the intercession service at which Mr. Roosevelt
was present.
As we left, my wife went out first. I noticed Drescher, big
and broad, standing just outside the door, but nobody else
seemed to be around to say good-by. I had just said, "Hlyah,
George," when I saw a hand reach out from behind him to
-183-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
catch the aim of my wife, who was heading on down the hall.
She stopped and peered and then blushed. By the time I
was up even with George, she was shaking hands with Mr.
Truman. He had been completely concealed behind his
huge Secret Service man.
The Tnimans were very folksy, although apparently some
what uncomfortable, when they first moved into the White
House. They found that living at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue
wasn't the same as living at home. Mr. Truman fretted under
the weight of his new burdens, and it took him quite a while
to decide he liked being President He kept close track of
how the mail was running. It was pretty high at first, but he
was especially interested in whether it ran as high as Mr.
Roosevelt's average. I always had to say that it didift.
-1S4-
CHAPTER TWELVE
SOMEWHERE IN THE UNITED STATES RIGHT AT THIS MINUTE
several persons are exercising their inalienable right to
sit down and knock off a letter to the President. One of them
may be an indignant housewife complaining about prices at
the butcher shop or the quality of teen-age entertainment on
the radio. Another may be a big businessman expressing his
views on taxation. Still another may be suggesting that the
President try Aunt Martha's home remedy for his cold.
Several thousand persons write to the Chief Executive
every day on every subject you can think of and a great many
that you could never imagine. Some are serious thinkers,
some are busybodies, and some are just crazy, like the man
who asked for "a list of all the misses in the U.S. so I can
solve the mystery of who is Miss Hush on the radio.**
Most of the people who write to the President expect him
to read and answer their letters, or to perform some small
favor such as putting them in touch with a soldier in Munich,
selling a fancy piece of embroidery, addressing the graduat
ing class at Northside High School, or dropping an atom
bomb on some foreign capital. Some of them suspect that
-185-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
their letters might not reach the President, and they include a
bitter denunciation of nosy secretaries and clerks who ought
to be put in jail if they open letters addressed to someone else.
Some of these unusual notations on envelopes addressed to
the President were: "Mrs. Rosenfelt, kindly give this to your
husband, thank you." "This letter must not be opened by any
one but the Pres. Give it to him when he starts home in the
evening." "Due not open this mail except Mr. Rosevelt."
And simply, "Your letter openers better look out and not in."
Well, what does happen to your letter after you address it
to the President at the White House and drop it in the
mailbox?
Back in the McKinley administration when I first started
handling the White House mail the answer would have been
pretty simple. The postman would bring around a bag of mail,
maybe a hundred letters, and I would open them and turn
them over to the President's secretary or send them to one of
the departments or to a stenographer for answer. Some of
them I answered myself.
Today the principle is the same but what a difference in
operation! Before I retired as Chief of Mails at the White
House in June of 1948, 1 headed a unit that had ten readers,
twelve postal clerks, one assistant, one receptionist, two mes
sengers, and myself to do the job I had once handled alone.
And in rush times we had as many as seventy persons working
to keep up with perhaps 150,000 letters, cards, and packages
a day.
Mail arrives at the White House receiving room in a special
sealed truck driven by a post-office employee who does
-186-
"Dear Mr. President . . .*
nothing but deliver mailbags to the President Your letter is
buried somewhere in the pile of bags^ but don't worry. It
won't be lost.
A corps of clerks permanently detailed by the city post
office to the White House takes over in tie receiving room.
They put the letters, which are tied in bundles, under a
fluoroscope, a metal boxlike contraption about three feet
by two and three feet high, and look at them through a glass
window. If there is a dime or a paper clip or any other such
object in your letter they will see it even if it is in the middle
of the bundle.
They won't worry if they see either a dime or a paper clip,
but if anything shows up that is puzzling or suspicious, the
bundle is broken open and that letter is removed before the
others are turned over to clerks in the sorting room. There
are six sorting boxes where the mail is distributed to pigeon
holes marked for the President, his wife, and various staff
members. When a pigeonhole is full, the clerk at that position.
takes the letters out and stacks them up edgewise along his
table. There is a ruler on the edge of the table, and he notes
down how many inches of mail he has sorted for the Presi
dent. Nobody counts letters to the President these days. They
are measured by the foot or the yard, which gives the same
result and saves time.
The mail for the President's wife goes to her secretaries,
but the President's mail is stacked in piles on a long table.
The Chief of Mails at the White House and his assistants go
through these stacks to pick out the personal mail for the
Chief Executive. You need a good memory for stationery,
-187-
"Deaf Mr. President . . ."
postmarks, and tlie Itineraries of the presidential family, and
you also have to be something of a handwriting expert to
pick out the letters that go to the President unopened.
Another thing the Chief of Mails has to do is pick out what
we called the "important* * ones, which might come from
anywhere. You soon learn, of course, to recognize the Presi
dent's regular correspondents, but every mail brings its share
of letters from political or business or foreign personages, and
if one is missed or misdirected it might easily create a major
crisis.
None of the nine Presidents under "whom I served ever put
a Tiands off' sign on any correspondence addressed to him,
except from members of his family or very close friends. After
years of experience, it was not difficult for me to carry in my
mind the color of stationery, the writing, the postmark, and
other peculiarities that enabled me to pick out this personal
mail. I could still recognize today the distinctive stationery
used by the Theodore Roosevelt family, or the small silver-
gray envelope that identified a letter from Mrs. Taft to her
husband.
Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt gave me the most trouble. When
die was on a trip she seldom stuck to the advance itinerary,
which we checked on regularly. Not only was it almost impos
sible to forward mail to her, but she wrote to the President
from so many unexpected towns and on such odd hotel sta
tionery that it was only with great difficulty that I could
recognize her letters without opening them.
After sorting out the personal and ^important" mail, the
rest of the correspondence addressed to the President prob-
-188-
~ "Dear Mr. President . . "
ably including your letteris run through the electric letter-
opener, gathered in piles, and distributed to the readers,
starting at about 8:15 A.M. A good reader can get through
500 or 600 letters a day, particularly if that includes a good
many propaganda letters, which can be handled quickly.
The reader sees plenty of strange addresses on the letters
that come to the White House. Many persons draw elaborate
pictures or portraits of the President, or work out trick designs
in the hope of attracting his attention. As has been noted, a
typical stunt with T.R. was to draw a big stick on the en
velope, with no other address, and with F.D.R. a picture of a
rose was sometimes used in combination with the letters
*V-e-l-t." But many of the addresses display the surprising
ignorance and sometimes the political sentiments of the
writers.
All such letters are acknowledged, but presuming your
letter is a sensible one, it would get special attention, depend
ing on the subject matter. Each reader must have a thorough
knowledge of all the government departments and agencies
and their duties, During the height of the New Deal alpha
betical-agency period, that meant knowing plenty usually
more than anybody else in Washington knew or could puzzle
out
The reader has to decide at once what agency or depart
ment should handle each letter, and to be able to write the
name or initials of that agency on the corner of the letter.
Sounds simple, but it means knowing the names and duties of
such agencies as FERA, HOLC, IEFC, CAA, ODT, NBA,
WAA and ACPSAHMWA. You try to figure them out, and
-189-
"Dear Mr. President . .
remember that there were scores of them, and they were
changing every other week If you're curious, that last one
was the American Commission for the Protection and Salvage
of Artistic and Historic Monuments in War Areas.
On letter the reader adds his own number (every
reader is numbered ) and then, on a prepared form, puts the
name and address of the writer and a brief note of what the
letter said and where it was sent This is attached to the letter
and to the filing room, where the prepared form is re
moved and lied and the letter is sent along to the correct
agency.
Hie system of putting agency or department initials on
letters once resulted in an amusing incident A reader wrote
AGR (for Agriculture) on a letter from a Midwestern farmer,
and by mistake the letter was returned to the writer when it
was answered. He saw the initials and, perhaps because there
were a lot of peculiar questions asked in New Deal days, lie
got the Idea that the letters were AGE and that we wanted to
know how old he was* He wrote Mr, Roosevelt a letter saying
that lie didn't think it was any of our damn business, but if
we must know he was sixty-two, and hale and hearty.
If your letter is to be handled or acknowledged by the
White House staff, it is sent to the proper secretary or to the
chief stenographer, perhaps after a memorandum lias been
filed regarding its contents. The important letters from Con
gressmen, businessmen, or perhaps friends of the President
are opened by the Chief of Mails and his assistant and dis
posed of in tie same manner, except that more of them find
their way to the President or the secretaries.
-190-
"Dear Mr. President . . /'
So you can see that when you sit down to write to the
President you're getting yourself involved in a lot of ma
chinery, and the chances of the President's seeing your letter
are about the same as a long shot in the daily double at
Hialeah.
Nevertheless, the President does see a good many letters,
and the summaries and other data that are supplied Mm make
it possible for him to keep a close tab on public opinion and
on the problems that are uppermost in the minds of ordinary
people. In looking through my notes and records I am re
minded that not all the "ordinary people" are Americans; that
for many years the President received frequent letters from
little people in other countries. One of them, a letter written
in Tokyo on January 14, 1936, is a part of my records and it
seems such a strange missive now after the war that it may
be worth including.
Your Excellency
Mr. President and Mrs. Franklin D. Roosevelt
Since your Inauguration of presidency your candid policies
proved much worth and improvement of general conditions can
be seen to us a plain cityzen of Far East We are highly respect-
ingly congratulate you.
The world, all over quite uneasy trouble after trouble here and
there. Unsteadieness, topling state only can be relzxed and let
steady to safety through sincere, sympathetic understandings of
each others situation, position. We are so believing.
1936 the year of election in your country. Political world be
comes so active and bright. For the same policy and practiiioa in
America means not only for the countrys stability and steadfast
ness but also for the world at large. Each word actions movement
of your Excellency directly reflect so nervously England rather
-191-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
British Britain somewhat losing her former power while America
gained whether she wish or not The world affairs always some
how mingled because of her natinal power and being strong.
As a nation we think America is the best located and well
provided by nature. Yet she must have her own natinal troubles,
worries, problems, as any other powers. Especially at the present
time. Your Excellency you need health, vigor and energy to stand
for the heaviest responsibility ever fall upon a man.
We have red a book of biographies related chiefly upon Ameri
can presidents. We were deeply toubhed, moved and we thought
we could something for the president to relief his ever working
brains and body. Let to be leisured whenever the chance to be.
Our this Japanized engBsh letter may interest your excellency's
tired brain for change.
We also wish to present you a pure white woolen sweater to be
wear when you have the opportunity for open air vacation, to
comfort your body to please you. This sweater is designed and
styled by me. Hand knited by my wife. We worked for completion
together. Each day we took clean hot bath before our start and
prayed as our own religious manner. Woolen yarn we chased
English bee hive jumper 3 ply yars about the best obtainably in
Japan. The measurement we were thought by our teacher. We
hope our sincere devotion can be expressed within this sweater
and will It your excellency perfectly, smartly and suit IB your
taste.
We are sending this sweater to be honorably presented as a
cityzen of Japan. A nameless plain business shop keeper is so
vigorously and sincerely wishing an international good will and
closer relation betterment of the either side of pacific countries
even lasting co-existing and mutual progressions, prosperity,
happiness and eventually the worlds' perfect peace and well
faires.
We remain we are
Yours most respectedly
EL M. I .
Ayako I .
-192-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
P.S. Please be kind enough to excuse us if using this plain paper
and we wish your excellency to try understand this comical
letter, the sort only you can receive, there are many errors
mistakes but please help us to percive the bond of meaning
We are much obliged and pray
The touching letter from the Japanese and his wife was
followed some months later by notification that the sweater
had been completed and dispatched, but for the life of me I
cannot recall whether it ever reached the President
So many gifts did arrive, especially at Christmas time* that
they became a sort of blur in my mind except for a few out
standing items. I find in my records the following notation
made on December 20, 1934:
CHRISTMAS SEASON MAIL
The regular routine letter mail continues at about 3800.
Christmas cards for the President and Mrs. Roosevelt are
arriving in great numbers and will continue to increase until after
the holiday. Today we handled about 2000.
Gifts for the President and Mrs. Roosevelt and other members
of the family keep several clerks busy and will increase the work
through Tuesday. The range extends from small, inexpensive,
homemade gifts from obscure admirers to the more pretentious
ones from personal friends. Fruit, a whole deer, ducks, pheasants,
quail, nuts, jams, jellies, wines, and fish, as well as nine turkeys
(one came express collect), canes, dolls, wood carvings, fancy
sewing in the shape of quilts, pillowcases, handkerchiefs, etc.
Picture frames, paintings, ship models, and old prints have been
received.
A great many of the personal gifts come in care of Mrs.
Roosevelt and are inspected and handled at the House.
In trying to give an idea of the volume and variety of work
done in the White House mail room, especially during the last
-193-
"Dear Mr. President ..."
decade or so, I find that statistics are not really adequate. It
seems to me that it might be* more understandable and inter
esting if I made it possible for the reader to see the work done
by one clerk in one day during the period of World War II,
when mail volume was high. The following list is a record of
letters handled by only one clerk in only one working day.
The contents of the letters are indicated in the listing.
A request for deferment; a request for a job; 36 petitions against
liquor and vice conditions around army camps; 4 letters urging
freedom for Earl Browder; 1 letter opposing freedom for Browder;
42 more letters against liquor and vice around camps; a protest
against inefficiency in government departments where clerks sit
around idle and cause comment by men in uniform; a protest
against drafting boys under nineteen; 11 invitations to high-school
'Commencements; 6 clippings without names; an offer from a
national organization to rally motorists back of the President's war
leadership; 9 suspicious or crank letters sent to the Secret Service;
a farmer's request for deferment; a proposal that Henry Wallace
broadcast once a week; a poem; 2 letters asking release from the
Army; an army private asks foreign service; a plan to speed the
sale of defense bonds; praise for the FEPC; a plea to erase a man's
prison record; thanks for a hospital grant; request from a Negro
organization to interview the President; an inquiry re March of
Dimes; a request for a birth certificate; a request for $1000 to
finance an invention for national defense; a request for a patent;
an idea for a motor to replace the gasoline motor; a man who
caught two safe-crackers thinks he ought to have a reward;
4 letters re old age pensions; 61 petitions and 181 letters regarding
morals and national defense; three suggestions of names for the
Second World War; a prayer for peace; a protest against cigarette
smoking; a letter re training of radio technicians; a request for
the President's picture; a plan for price control; a plea for the re
lease of a husband held by the F.B.I.; a study of Negro achieve
ments in the Chicago public schools; 11 letters seeking defer-
-194-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?*
ments; a protest against widening a Washington street; a protest
against gasoline rationing; a letter on the CIO; a protest against
the excess-profits tax; 3 letters on racial discrimination; a request
from a mother for permission for her fifteen-year-old daughter to
take a job; a suggestion that 10 per cent of all salaries be invested
in defense bonds; 2 requests to employ those over sixty in defense
jobs; a plea to ban the sale of rubber tires to brewers; a suggestion
that the Secretary of State be fired; a request for a presidential
greeting at the dedication of a church; a request for an auto
graphed photograph; an endorsement of a friend for work with
the WPB; 2 offers of services in war work; a suggestion for special
education of the people on government subjects; 2 letters saying to
be sure and retaliate if the Japs use poison gas; a request for
financial aid to develop a mine; 2 requests for less sugar ration-
Ing; an offer to give the Government a formula for an effective
poison; an offer of an invention that seems to be a torpedo net;
3 letters from women seeking release of their husbands from the
Army; an argument on the allotment of cotton acreage; a protest
against the mobilization bill; a proposal to ban the use of copper
except for defense; a plea to extend REA lines to farm property;
a complaint that the Columbus, Ohio, general depot fails to deliver
checks promptly; a demand for a second front; a letter on sub
versive activities; a request to help locate a husband; 4 requests
for defense work; a request for automobile tires; a request for a
patent on wooden car wheels; a proposal for an international con
ference; a protest against paying union dues; a request for in
formation about a son in the Army; a proposal for a Congressional
bfll legalizing the marriage of white and colored persons; a plan
for an airplane motor that does not use gasoline; a plan to speed
delivery of lumber to defense projects; a plan for raising the
morale of high-school boys, who are the "future soldiers**; a pro
test than men in army uniform are too attentive to a certain girl;
a request that the Army draft a husband; 5 letters on price-fixing;
6 letters on gas rationing; 2 more poems; 3 more suggestions of
names for the Second World War; a letter telling about troubles
with the neighbors; a letter filled with political advice; a gift of
-195-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
toy rubber boots; a complaint about labor unions; a request for a
post-office job; a proposal to sell a truck to the Government; a
simple remedy for malaria; a request for money to pay for a wife's
operation; an offer of an instrument for locating oil; 2 girls want
to serve in the Army; 2 others want war work; a proposal that the
Air Force bomb Japanese volcanoes; a request for a birth, cer
tificate; a letter of admiration for the President; a check ($23.30)
for defense sent by school children; a pledge by a worker of
10 per cent of his wages for defense; a book of stamps ($18) for
defense; 6 more suggestions of names for the Second World War;
a proposal to seize Martinique and the Free French islands; an
invalid asks financial backing for an original song; a proposal to
ban the sale of fireworks; an offer of a girl's blond hair for precision
instruments; an offer to sell a steel engraving of Lincoln; an out
line of terms for a peace treaty with Japan; a patriotic poem; a
schoolgirl's letter on what the U.S. means to her; a boys* club
invites the President to be their honorary president; information as
to a draft-dodger; a one-legged man wants a job or relief; an offer
of an automobile headlight reflector to the Government; a charge
that a husband fails to support his wife; a protest against the
Eastern-seaboard blackout; 5 letters from Congressmen enclosing
letters from constituents; a letter from G* Pinchot re lifeboat
equipment; a suggestion about how to make liquor; a proposal to
use the metal in post-office doors for defense; a request for money
to launch a garden weeder; a sarcastic letter regarding the Presi
dent's last speech; a letter to the President's dog; 5 patriotic songs;
covers for a stamp collection; one more name for the Second
World War.
This may seem like a long list for one man to get through
in a day, but actually I have abbreviated it somewhat, since
the clerk on that day handled a large number of organized-
pressure letters that were all the same and didn't require
careful reading. But to get an idea of the work the mail room
did in these days, the list above would have to be vastly in-
-196-
"Dear Mr. President . * .*
creased. The following tables, for instance, show the steady
increase in mail over a period of three years, with January
used as the sample month:
JANUARY 1942
Letters
Cards
Misc.
2
2,905
175
1,810
3
1,635
110
1,285
5
2,045
360
1,305
6
1,610
140
1,085
7
1,840
120
1,270
8
2,035
110
1,170
9
1,685
50
1,120
10
1,820
75
1,115
12
2,810
185
1,570
13
1,755
130
935
14
2,870
125
1,335
15
2,410
130
1,115
16
1,685
100
910
17
2,830
110
1,435
19
3,285
210
1,115
20
2,055
85
745
21
3,415
105
1,110
22
4,510
170
1,205
23
4,085
125
1,115
24
4,015
195
865
26
9,430
385
1,935
27
6,115
175
810
28
13,110
160
1,055
29
15,880
190
1,310
30
22,665
160
1,235
31
22,570
310
1,105
141,070
4l90
a065
-197-
"Dear Mr. President
JANUAEY 1948
Letters
Cards
Misc.
1
1,215
25
785
2
1,535
35
1,025
4
2,115
130
1,435
5
1,270
55
985
6
1,580
65
995
7
1,535
80
1,015
8
1,720
85
1,115
9
1,745
70
1,045
11
3,080
125
1,340
12
1,440
130
865
13
1,985
255
1,020
14
1,815
175
1,015
15
1,740
245
985
16
2,105
215
1,035
18
2,570
335
1,165
19
2,065
150
785
20
2,515
245
880
21
2,935
310
855
22
3,655
205
930
23
4,090
470
885
25
8,435
385
1,440
26
10,065
205
840
27
15,575
140
990
28
20,200
180
910
29
20,770
140
845
30
26,300
230
835
31
24,110
250
680
168,165
4,935
26,700
-198-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
JANUARY 1945
Letters
Cards
Misc.
1
1,770
275
1,250
2
1,070
70
615
3
1,165
65
920
4
1,640
135
1,120
5
1,620
225
1,275
6
1,540
55
920
8
1,810
150
1,435
9
1,425
80
1,070
10
2,620
160
1,515
11
1,820
225
1,270
12
2,545
215
1,275
13
2,735
95
1,140
15
3,115
175
1,505
16
2,545
45
985
17
4,140
80
1,465
18
5,840
90
1,710
19
7,140
110
1,445
20
10,440
125
1,735
22
16,035
145
1,720
23
9,040
160
1,085
24
12,985
215
1,315
25
14,750
1,010
1,340
26
14,987
630
1,265
27
19,765
375
1,235
28
14,400
380
1,015
29
23,070
510
935
30
18,330
445
775
31
30,070
590
1,270
228,412
6^35
34605
But the letters are just part o it. People also send packages
to the President, and they are even more work. Later I will
-199-
"Dear Mr. President . . .**
tell you just tow they are treated. A lot of strange things
came out of packages sent to the White House in the last
fifty years; everything from gold teeth sent in by persons who
heard it was illegal to hoard gold to the gold-plated toilet seat
sent to Mr. Truman. When gold currency and coins were
withdrawn from circulation, we received some $468,000
worth of gold articles from persons who misunderstood the
Treasury order and believed that all gold articles had to be
turned in to the Government. During World War II, many
persons sent in contributions of money or gold articles to be
sold for defense, ranging from $1 to buy bullets for use on the
Japs to checks for $50,000 contributed by workers in a fac
tory. All such contributions were sent to the Treasury.
Such gifts present many difficult problems. All of them are
acknowledged, but few of them are anything that the Chief
Executive would want or could use. Or if the gift is expensive,
it may be refused because the President would find it unwise
to accept anything that might put him under an obligation
to the sender. All others, however, are kept for at least six
months, no matter how useless or how horrible they may be.
That rule was made after Margaret Le Hand, the personal
secretary to F.D.R., received a package containing a statuette
sent to the President. She found it so repulsive that she im
mediately shattered it. The sculptor later wrote in about it
and we were involved in a six-months correspondence trying
to explain why we couldn't either return it or pay him $200
for it. He finally got tired of asking.
The large number of gifts sent to F.D.R. resulted in the
building a basement storeroom to hold the overflow of pres-
-200-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
ents some valuable and some merely horrible pieces of junk
This room was unofficially called "the Chamber of Horrors"
because, as one newspaper reporter said, of the ^gro-
tesqueness of many of the goodwill gifts" received by the
Roosevelts.
The reporter, J. Russell Young of the Washington Star,
added that the President never used the term, but he had
long since become aware of what was meant when he turned
a gift over to a subordinate and the latter bowed out saying,
*I will put it in the chamber of horrors, sir."
Young, a veteran White House correspondent, an amateur
artist, and later a District of Columbia Commissioner, wrote
a gentle and undsrstanding article about the gifts that were
sent to the Roosevelts, pointing out the desire of the givers to
do something for the President and the First Lady, but also
bringing out the problem that was created for them. The story
said in part:
Mr. and Mrs. Roosevelt, like most of their predecessors in the
executive mansion, have followed a strict policy of returning all
presents of any real intrinsic value. But, also like the prior oc
cupants, Mr. and Mrs. Roosevelt have been happy to accept the
many little and inexpensive remembrances and tokens of apprecia
tion tendered them. They both make it a strict rule to acknowledge
personally all gifts they feel they can keep.
That, in itself, is something of a task when it is remembered the
Chief Executive has many more pressing demands on his time.
But, the real task is to find a place to put these gifts that are re
ceived.
The White House is a commodious place in so far as homes go,
but there is a limit to everything. The room originally assigned as
the resting place for miscellaneous gifts during the early days of
-201-
"Dear Mr. President . ?
the Roosevelt administration lias long since been found in
adequate. Another room in the White House is now catching the
overflow.
In the President's old home at Hyde Park, N. Y., where he
spends many week ends during the year, there also is a "chamber
of horrors." The same is true of the President's little white cottage
at, the foot of Pine Mountain at Warm Springs, Ga. . . .
It is almost unbelievable what people really send to the Presi
dent and Mrs. Roosevelt. There is no mistaking the fact that some
of the articles have required great skill and deft fingers and many
months of labor to execute. Most of the presents might well come
under the classification of "junk/* even though they are not treated
as such in the presidential household.
To enumerate the many kinds of gifts would be like quoting
from the pages of a mail-order house catalogue. In the matter of
numbers, handmade neckties head the list. They come in all colors
and styles, some embroidered and some knitted, many of them
with the President's initials, some of them displaying a prominent
TET and some few of them bearing the President's likeness or what
the sender intended as a likeness.
All sorts of wearing apparel are included in the list, socks and
handkerchiefs being the most common. Then there are the many
penknives, wood-carvings, wrought-iron work, water-color paint
ings and oil paintings, pictures in pastel or crayon, more frequently
in pen and ink. As might be expected, most of these works of art
are intended to be a likeness of the President There are the
fountain pens, pencils, stickpins, cufi links and shirt studs.
Following publication of a story a year or so ago about the
President appearing at a banquet in evening clothes and wearing
dark shirt studs intended for wear only on informal occasions, he
was swamped soon afterward with white studs. This no doubt was
due to the fact the President laughingly remarked when com
menting on his improper attire, that he could not find his white
shirt studs when he was getting dressed for the banquet. "I guess
one of my sons helped himself beforehand,** the President ex
plained.
-202-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
Peculiarly enough, the gifts are more or less of a seasonal nature.
As is generally known, Mr. Roosevelt is susceptible to head colds.
Each time stories are printed about him being indisposed the
White House is flooded with presents from well-wishing friends
in the form of handmade chest protectors, sweaters, wrist warmers,
woolen socks and earmuffs, to say nothing of all sorts of home
made remedies for coughs and colds.
In the Summer the President receives a variety of homemade
fans. Around Christmas there are many presents of homemade
candy, fruits, cake, plum pudding and other delicacies identified
with the season.
In the Autumn and Winter come the apples, pears, nuts, smoked
hams and game birds, in addition to the customary number of
turkeys received at Thanksgiving and Christmas time. There also
are venison and bear meat, wild duck, pheasants and partridges,
sent by proud hunters from various parts of the country. Tien
there are the various cakes and pies the largest cherry pie in the
world came by airplane from die Michigan cherry festival last
Summer. Crates of oranges and grapefruit in great numbers are
received. Some of these are prize winners in the citrus States. In
addition, there are received quantities of fish, oysters, crabs and
lobsters.
Ever since Mr. Roosevelt has been in office he has been the
recipient each year of the first salmon caught in Maine waters.
The best of the first seasonal tonging in Chesapeake Bay also are
added to the White House larder.
The eatables, of course, are not sent to the "chamber of horrors."
The articles which go to the President's table are carefully in
spected and are either put in the White House larder for eventual
use on the presidential table or sent to one of the local hospitals.
But the handicraft and some of it really is remarkable in its orig
inality and execution finds its way to the "chamber of horrors.**
Some of these articles are on display in what is known as the
"trophy room** on the basement floor of the White House, to be
viewed by the daily visitors and sightseers. Most of the articles,
however, are too crude to be put on display or be used by the
-203-
Mr. President . . .**
President or Mrs. Roosevelt Therefore, generally after the Presi
dent has examined them and made a notation of the name and
address of the sender, they are relegated to the well-known
chamber.
Just how often the "chamber of horrors'* is emptied and what
eventually becomes of the gifts, only one or two persons know
and they are not revealing the fact. More than likely the President
himself does not know. Certainly, the gifts are of no value either
intrinsically or sentimentally. Very few of them have any real
usefulness.
The fact is known that there is a "chamber of horrors* 5 ; that it
comprises more than one room; that only a few people know
exactly where it is, or how it operates. But it holds and then gets
rid ofthe White House junk.
Gifts from abroad, normally, are accepted only if they
come from foreign governments and can be made part of the
permanent White House furnishings rather than the personal
property of the President.
Each President is able to exercise considerable discretion
regarding gifts, and there has been a good deal of variation.
President McEonley was careful about accepting anything
more than a crate of oranges or a box of cigars. Theodore
Roosevelt received many odd gifts, especially canes in the
shape of the <e big stick" that he made famous, and Ms daugh
ter Alice received a trainload of gifts when she was married.
The Taf ts accepted hundreds of silver gifts on their twenty-
fifth wedding anniversary, as has been noted. Woodrow Wil
son and Herbert Hoover were not interested, and did not
want even the most inexpensive gifts, but Calvin Coolidge
kept a close record of all presents, and took many of them
home to Vermont when he left the White House.
-204-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
F.D.R. received a tremendous assortment of gifts, with
canes (because lie was crippled) probably the leading item.
He took an interest in odd gifts, little carvings, ship models,
and trinkets, and littered the place with those that happened
to strike his fancy.
Gifts coming in through the customs always cause a lot of
trouble, but I believe it was most acute during the time of
F.D.R. A typical example was a man in Panama who wrote
to the President expressing his admiration, and saying that
he had made a special deep-sea fishing rod and an exquisite
reel, which he was sending as a gift. Miss Le Hand replied
telling him that Mr. Roosevelt was very appreciative and
was looking forward to using the equipment. A couple of
weeks later the Collector of Customs notified me that he had
a rod and a reel for the President. They had been appraised,
he said, and the duty of approximately 50 per cent came to
the neat sum of $480. Would the President, the Collector
added, please send over the cash and he would send over the
fishing equipment, which was handsome indeed. No cash, no
rod or reel. I told Miss Le Hand and her mouth popped
open.
"Oh, myF she said. TE thought Panama was part of the
United States. I didn't know there'd be any duty. 3 *
Neither one of us had any intention of asking the President
to fork over the money, since he already had a tracHoad of
fishing equipment. Miss Le Hand got together with the State
Department experts on what to do and finally cooked tip a
letter to the kindhearted Panamanian. The President, she
said, was not permitted to accept such valuable gifts, and
-205-
Mr. President . . "
therefore the State Department was forced to return the rod
and reel. But, she added, Mr. Roosevelt was planning to make
a voyage that would take him to Panama, and he hoped that
the man would come aboard his ship and demonstrate the
qualities of the equipment He did make such a trip later and
was primed to welcome the man, but he didn't show up.
After that, al letters regarding gifts from foreign countries
were routed to me, and we investigated the question of duty
and, when necessary, had the State Department send the
gifts back with a diplomatic letter of explanation.
Winston Churchill crossed us up, however, when he
returned the film of the motion picture Woodrow Wilson,
which FJD.R had lent him. It had been supposed that
Churchill would send the film back in the British Embassy
diplomatic pouch, which would not be subject to customs
inspection, but he put it aboard a Cunard liner and there
was no way to avoid the customs. I had to swear that they
were for government use in order to secure them and give
them back to the film company that had sent them to the
White House in the first place.
President Truman received notice from the Customs Office
at one time that a gift valued at $1000 had arrived for him.
We checked up and found that it was a portrait of Mr. Tru
man that had been painted by the Latin American who sent
it. It was either an esoteric masterpiece that I was unable to
appreciate, or it was a rotten painting, and we so advised the
President. He expressed a high degree of disinterest, and the
State Department advised the sender that it was being re
turned because it was not proper for the President to accept
-200-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
such valuable gifts. They got a telegram back promptly
saying not to send it back but please to sell it to some
body*
Mr. Truman always got a kick out of seeing presents or
cards from his old friends. On one of his birthdays we were
instructed to send all of the greeting cards to him. He evi
dently enjoyed seeing them, but we puzzled for weeks trying
to acknowledge many of them with no other clew than a
scrawled signature such as "Harry" or Tour pal Hank" or
"Old Pete."
Once when the President made an offhand remark at a
press conference about his own difficulties in getting white
shirts during the war, he was inundated with a flood of white
shirts in the next mail. Later, without saying anything, he
received a lot of livestock from farmers who wanted to protest
against the cost and the scarcity of feed. An Iowa fanner
sent him a live hog that weighed 700 pounds. The $69
express charges were prepaid, and the animal was accom
panied by a respectful letter saying the farmer couldn't sell
the hog at a profit under current conditions May, 1948
and was giving it to Mr. Truman. The President didn't have
any place for a live hog, but the Bureau of Animal Industry
agreed to take it Their truck driver was happy when I told
him the hog could be picked up at the Railway Express.
"Mr. Smith," he said, "I had visions of us chasing that hog
all over the White House lawn."
"No," I told him, "that didn't bother me as much as the
fact that we couldn't use him because he has no civil-service
status.**
-207-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
A few days later Mr. Truman got another tog with another
protest against the high price of feed.
During the Truman drive to save grain for Europe, a num
ber of chicken fanners sent crates of live chickens to the
White House as a protest against chickenless Thursdays. The
letters accompanying them insisted, with tongue in cheek,
that they were merely gifts to the President, but the real
purpose was obvious. We finally had to get the express com
pany to head them off at the express depot and deliver them
to the Walter Reed Hospital
The majority of gifts to the President are food of one kind
or another. If a package of food was expected or came from
someone well known as when J* P. Morgan sometimes sent
ducks to the White House then we would inspect the pack
age to see that there was no tampering, and sent it over to
the kitchen. But otherwise we would send it directly to the
Food and Drugs Administration laboratory to be tested
chemically or on guinea pigs and monkeys. Most of the food
was thrown away before the New Deal days, because there
was no system then for testing it, and much of it arrived in
poor condition.
The end of Prohibition brought one wave of gifts that I
well remember. All the manufacturers were eager to get their
products publicized, and we were buried under five-gallon
cans of pretzels and bottles of legal beer. Three times a day
the express trucks would bring a new load, and I was soon
giving pretzels to anybody who would take them. The beer,
for the most part, went over to the White House, but Mr.
Roosevelt merely admired the freak bottles some of them
-208-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
holding ten gallons and declined to drink any. He had been
drinking a home brew that* was stirred up by Henry Nesbit,
the steward, and he kept right on drinking it after Repeal
Said he liked it better.
The Presidents, with the possible exception of Mr. Wilson
and Mr. Taf t, have always been interested in the trend of the
mail in so far as it indicates the swing of public opinion. In
the early part of the century, when perhaps fewer than a
hundred letters a day were received, people were not very
well informed on the big issues before Congress. The news
papers carried less Washington news, there was no radio to
spread word of what was happening in Congress, and only
the most important problems were debated generally. The
mail was slow, too. If you lived a long distance from the
capital, it would take eight or nine days to get a letter to the
President. By that time the problem at issue might already be
settled or might have faded out. We probably got more tele
grams than letters on an important occasion then, because
they could be delivered quickly.
Very gradually, the whole situation began to change, and
there was a great speed-up during World War I. The country
now knows through newspapers and radio the details of gov
ernmental affairs, and with the aid of airmail the people let
the President know what they think within a few hours.
Much of this mail, of course, is the product of organized
propaganda.
The first such pressure mail that I saw came from church
organizations during the McKinley administration, and was
concerned largely with keeping us out of war with Spain. It
-209-
"Dear Mr. President . . .**
was customary then for religious groups to distribute leaflets
in the pews of churches, suggesting that members of the
congregation write to the President and giving an example
of a letter that expressed the viewpoint of the group. We
would get the first wave of letters from New York and New
England, perhaps, but a week later we would be getting
similar letters from the South and the Midwest, and then
another wave from farther west, and probably it would con
tinue for a month or two. I would soon be able to recognize
such letters at a glance and would not bother the President
or his secretaries with them, although they were kept in
formed of the number of letters received on each important
issue.
In the Theodore Roosevelt administration, a coal strike
brought a new twist in pressure. A number of newspapers
printed coupons calling upon the President to force a settle
ment of the strike there was then great need for reform in
the industry and for the setting-up of safety standards and
readers were urged to send these coupons to the White
House. They did at the rate of about 2000 a day. This deluge
kept up for weeks, but after a short time I could tel by just
feeling the envelope whether it was a coupon. Except for
advising T.R. of the number received, I merely opened them
and filed them away.
During the Taft and Wilson administrations, there was a
stready growth in organized-pressure mail dealing with Pro
hibition and the events leading up to World War L Organ
ized labor, too, began bombarding the White House with
letters, and in recent years labor probably has contributed
-210-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?
more mail of this character than any other Hoc. In June of
1947, the organized-pressure letters on the Taf t-Hartley bill
set a record, averaging about 18,000 a day. On June 12, for in
stance, we received over all 13,190 letters, 47,300 post cards,
and 905 other items in the mail This included 40,900 post
cards demanding the veto of the labor bill.
That month of June was particularly heavy as far as
pressure nofiail in general was concerned. A few statistics indi
cate what we had to deal with. On June 17 we received
3800 post cards on the Palestine question, 400 on lynchings,
4500 on Public Law No. 27 (barring foreign-born war-service
seamen from American ships), and 10,900 calling upon the
President to veto the Taf t-Hartley bill
Almost all of these were printed or mimeographed form
cards that were distributed by various organizations to indi
viduals who signed and posted them. The record of letters,
cards, and other mail received for June was swollen as a
result of these organized campaigns to the totals shown in
the table on the following page.
I have never felt that such inspired mail amounted to
much, but the Presidents have usually taken a different view
point. Some of them have been inclined to think that the
dupes who write in on instructions represent the voice of the
people, and all of them have wanted regular reports on such
mail.
In 1948 there were fifteen different subjects under which
records of pressure mail were filed. These ranged from civil
rights to Prohibition to war with Russia. Letters and post
cards of this type usually arrive in large batches. One delivery
"Dear Mr. President
2
3
4
5
6
7
9
10
11
12
13
14
16
17
18
19
20
21
23
24
25
26
27
28
30
JUNE
1947
Letters
Cards
8,770
21,800
3,110
6,900
5,440
12,600
9,270
17,200
10,140
18,600
7,670
15,600
21,015
61,000
10,140
18,400
11,380
34,400
13,190
47,300
12,600
37,600
6,170
13,900
12,370
44,200
3,175
11,500
4,775
20,400
4,050
10,900
3,510
9,600
1,510
3,700
2,615
3,650
1,065
1,000
1,310
475
940
535
1,040
970
985
350
1,375
650
157,615
413,230
Misc.
705
635
735
635
775
605
1,235
680
675
905
910
635
1,005
610
705
710
770
505
840
505
735
540
535
580
575
177745
-212-
Mr. President . * ?
might bring 3000 letters on the same subject from, say, Chi
cago. Because they have all been written at the suggestion
of a single organization and say about the same thing, they
follow the same post-office channel, and are usually delivered
in bundles containing about 300 each.
These are easily recognized by the experienced clerk, who
reads the newspapers carefully and is probably expecting
them anyway. They are thrown aside until the other mail is
handled. Eventually, each letter is opened and a regular
report is made on the number received and on the contents,
in a general way. They are sent to whatever department is
particularly interested in the subject, but a complete file of
the names of the writers is cross-indexed in the White House
offices a practice started by Mr. Hoover and denounced by
me ever since to anyone who would listen.
The whole problem of handling the White House mail has
changed tremendously in the last twenty years, owing pri
marily to the huge increase in letters of every kind during the
New Deal period. Prior to the arrival of F.D.K at the White
House, I had handled the entire mail by myself, except for
some routine assistance in emergencies. This meant working
holidays, Sundays, and until midnight on many occasions,
particularly when a change in administration might bring
10,000 unop 3ned letters in one week
The inauguration of Mr. Roosevelt in the midst of the
depression seemed to touch off the letter-writing instinct in
most Americans. Or perhaps they had more time on their
hands, and certainly they were worried. As already noted,
when the President told them to write to him about their
-213-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
troubles they took him at his word by the hundreds of
thousands.
"Dear Mr. President, I am worried about how we are
going to . . r
"Dear Mr. Roosevelt, The children have no shoes to wear
to school . . ."
"Dear Frank, IVe been driving a hack for ten years but
now . . r
"Dear Sir, Your detestable attempts to destroy our sys
tem of . . ."
They were all worried in one way or another, those who
were down to their last yacht as well as those who saw the
kids go to school with no breakfast, and they seemed to feel
that they must let Mr. Roosevelt know their hopes and fears.
They came in so fast we couldn't count them, but within a
week I had some 450 3 000 unopened letters stacked all over
the office.
I spent my entire time from 7:30 A.M. to midnight every
day merely going through the stacks of letters and picking out
those that seemed to be important. I put a couple of desks
in a basement room that had a dirt floor and ran temporary
lights into it, so I could get away from the office and work
without interruption.
Finally, I took my problem to Rudolph Forster, the execu
tive clerk, and he brought in the President's secretary, Louis
Howe. I told them that unless they just wanted to burn the
letters or throw them away we would have to have help. One
man and one woman were brought in from other depart-
-214-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
ments, but we soon decided that we would need a force of
about fifty persons for a while.
That was not easy, when you remembered that capable
persons would be needed, and the departments were reluc
tant to let good clerks go. The Civil Service Commission was
unable to provide the class of clerks needed. Forster finally
decided we could get help from outside the government
service, and have them sworn in as employees of temporary
agencies and detailed to the White House. There were plenty
of capable persons out of work, or running elevators, in those
days, and through my acquaintances I soon had hired twenty
outside the classified service. They were happy to give up
such jobs as they had and come to the White House* Then I
heard from Forster again. He said in view of the President's
position toward civil service he was afraid our action might
arouse criticism, and that we should again try to get clerks
through regular channels.
I blew my top. I told him these people had given up their
jobs, and that I had given my word they would be employed.
If I couldn't keep my promise, I said, I wanted him to get
somebody else in my place.
"Now, Ira, 7 * he said, "don't be precipitate. If youVe hired
them, it will have to go through/*
When it was all approved, I had the clerks, but nowhere
to put them. We began expanding into the halls and other
odd spaces, tut still there wasn't room. It was decided to take
over some space in the State Department Building across the
street, and Colonel Edmund Starling of the Secret Service
and I went over to discuss the problem. We didn't get very
-215-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
far, being tomed away with the State Department's cus
tomarily diplomatic version of the run-around. We had to ask
Mr. Koosevelt to direct that the rooms be commandeered,
which he did.
That was just the beginning of our migrations, however.
When the President decided to rebuild the excutive offices,
we moved everybody over to the State Department rooms
except myself and my assistant We moved our desks and
tables into the lower corridor at the east end of the White
House, and worked there until the rebuilding was completed.
Then we moved everybody back into the offices, and stayed
there until President Truman ordered more rebuilding of the
offices in 1946. Our entire staff was moved to some temporary
army barracks behind the State Department, but no sooner
had the move been made than Congress decided that the
proposed rebuilding would mar die beauty of the White
House, and withdrew the appropriation.
Our office, however, never did get back to the executive
wing. We finally fought another battle with the State Depart
ment, which was as obstructionist and as supercilious as ever,
in order to get suitable offices, and in June of 1947 we moved
into the offices the Mail Department now occupies in the old
State Department Building.
As usual we had to make a lot of special preparations there
to handle the crank mail and to maintain the system for
protection of the President from anyone who might decide
to send him a package of high explosives through the mail. I
want to tell about how that is done and about some of the
queer ones we handled at the White House.
-216-
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
. VERY PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, AS ANYONE KNOWS,
1 must constantly face a limited risk of bodily harm at the
hands of some crank or fanatic. But, as almost no one stops to
think, the men and women around the President, and espe
cially the Secret Service detail, must accept more or less the
same risk, because they are just as vulnerable as he is to a
bullet or a packaged bomb intended for the Chief Executive.
I don't believe anyone around the White House has ever
spent much time worrying about his own danger, and espe
cially I don*t believe any President has ever given it more
than passing consideration. On the contrary, most Presidents
have been scornful of the precautions taken by the Secret
Service and it has been difficult for some Chief Executives
and their families to understand quickly the necessity for
such precautions.
This is often quite understandable. I remember, for in
stance, that Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt was a bit slow to agree
that it was necessary to continue our method of handling
packages and gifts sent to the President. When I first went to
her to discuss the mail problem soon after the arrival of the
Mr. President . . ?
Roosevelts in Washington* she was surprised that it would
be necessary to examine all packages before they were
delivered to the family. I pointed out to her the dangers in
volved in delivering uninspected packages to the head of a
state, because some enemy might take advantage of such
laxity to harm Mm.
**Oh yes," Mrs. Roosevelt said with a smile, "but everybody
loves Franklin!"
ln that case/' I replied, "it is difficult to understand whom
Zangara was shooting at down in Florida last January when
he lolled Mayor Cennak instead of the President."
Mrs. Roosevelt agreed that it would be best if we examined
the packages.
Since the beginning of World War II the measures for
protection of the President have been the most elaborate and
efficient that modern science could devise, but as I look back
on my fifty years service in the White House, I often shudder
to recall the risks that were run in earlier years. As Chief of
Mails, I suppose I took my share of the risks, because cranks
are just as likely to use the postal service as any other method
of trying to get explosives into the President's office. Follow
ing the assassination of President McKinley, I was inclined
to be suspicious of everything, and through the years I devel
oped a sort of sixth sense in regard to packages that came
unannounced in the White House mail. Sometimes I was
right and sometimes I was wrong.
Many a time I prodded a package with a stick while hold
ing an improvised shield in front of myself. Many a time I
dumped a ticking box into a bucket of oil often ruining a
-218-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
handsome gift clock addressed to the President. Many a time
I wrecked the intricate model o some device sent in by an
inventor who thought he was contributing a marvelous new
weapon to our national defense.
It is no longer true, but until the time of Franklin Roosevelt
the Chief of Mails had to depend largely on instinct and good
luck and experience in handling dangerous packages, because
we didn't have the elaborate scientific equipment that is now
installed in the White House mail room. About the only good
thing I can say about the old days is that at least I never lost
a President.
There were, however, some occasions when I wasn't sure
whether my luck would last. And there were times that were
both exciting and amusing as the day in 1933 when I was
opening President Roosevelt's mail and came to a package
wrapped in brown paper and postmarked from Cleveland,
Ohio. To the casual observer it would have seemed to be just
an ordinary parcel, except perhaps for the scrawled address;
"To the President of the United States." But to me it was an
object of immediate suspicion. There was, I thought instinc
tively even before I had touched it, something wrong with
that irregular handwriting and the sender's return address:
"Lieut. Jenkins, Cleveland Police/' When I picked up the
package there didn't seem to be anything particularly un
usual about it, but my suspicions were as strong as before. I
held it out to one of my assistants.
"Buck," I said, "what do you think?"
He gave it a long look, shrugged, and said, Td rather you
opened it"
"Dear Mr. President . . "
I went over and checked the 'lookout** file of letters that
had come in telling us to be on the lookout for a package
that would arrive later for the President. There was nothing
in regard to Cleveland or Lieutenant Jenkins. I decided to try
a method I had developed for opening suspicious packages
backward.
The normal way to open a package is to cut along the top,
or to untie It and loosen the folded paper. That is also the
way to touch off a bomb in some cases if one happens to be
inside the package. A crude bomb, for instance > might have a
match placed so that it will be ignited by friction when the
paper is loosened, to touch off gunpowder, which in turn will
explode the bomb. My system was to open the suspicious
packages in as nearly as possible the opposite manner.
In this instance, I started cutting a hole in the bottom of
the package. Under the brown paper I found a stiff cardboard
box, and looped through the sides of the box I discovered
many small copper wires. That was enough for me. Any
package that ticked or had wires inside always got my goat
and with good reason, too. I decided to give Lieutenant Jen
kins's package the full-dress treatment.
My first move was to go to the lobby outside the President's
office, where, as I had expected, I found the inimitable
Colonel Edmund W. Starling, chief of the White House
Secret Service detail, resting comfortably on a divan.
"Colonel,* I said, "I think IVe got something of interest to
the Secret Service."
The Colonel was not a man to pass up the dramatics in
any situation. He sat up, tightened his rugged jaw, and nar-
220
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
rowed liis eyes at me. I told him about the package. He made
a quick but safe decision.
"Lef s soak it," lie said.
We took the parcel out into the back yard o the White
House, got a bucket of water, and dumped it in. Then we
went about our business. Twelve hours later we got a couple
of long sticks from the basement and fished the package out
of the bucket Using the poles like elongated chopsticks, and
ready to hit the deck at any moment, we began tearing the
package to pieces.
We smashed the box and disclosed yards of thru copper
wire wound back and forth in an intricate pattern thorough a
queer-looking lump in the middle of the package. We sweated
and prodded some more, and didn't seem to be getting any
where. Finally I threw down my pole and stepped closer to
the mess.
"You know what that looks like?" I asked Starling.
The Colonel shook his head irritably, suggesting that he
didn't much care what it looked like. He was getting good
and tired of Lieutenant Jenkins's little parcel.
"It looks," I said, "like a sweet potato."
We took a closer look and it was a sweet potato. The
Colonel personally confirmed it with a fine outburst of dis
gust. He bundled the whole works up carefully, with the idea
of trying to trace the sender.
"Well," he said as he stalked away, "we made a noble
effort however futile."
There was nothing in the package but the wires and a
harmless sweet potato. All efforts to trace what must have
-221-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
been a man with a distorted sense of humor failed. We never
knew the answer, but it was a long time before we could see
anything even faintly amusing in the incident. My only
solace was that I had been right there was something wrong
with that parcel.
The sweet-potato "bomb" w r as just part of a day's work, but
we never knew when we might come across something far
more serious, and we never took chances, And we had some
queer experiences with cranks and with some characters who
meant real danger, especially when they followed up their
fetters or packages with visits to the White House.
One of the crackpot variety who crashed the White House
back in the McKinley administration was typical of the
mental cases who seem harmless enough but might at any
time become fanatical and dangerous. This fellow arrived
carrying a bundle made up of branches and weeds, with a
Bible nestled in the center. He insisted that he had to see the
President. If he did not, his bundle, which was really a voo
doo creation, would bring about many horrors, including the
ousting of Mr. McKinley and the election of a king. He could
prevent these catastrophes, he added, by explaining to the
President that the branches he carried represented various
political groups, and that some of them had to be lopped oft
The whole situation could be saved, he went on, by elimi
nating William Jennings Bryan from politics an idea that
would doubtless have appealed to Mr. McKinley had it been
proposed by anyone but a voodoo doctor.
A more amusing incident occurred when Mr. CooHdge was
President. There was a wealthy real-estate man in the Mid-
222
"Dear Mr. President . . "
west who became well known to us because he was always
writing to the President on important issues, about which he
apparently knew nothing. Finally he showed up at our
office, confident that the President would be pleased to see
him.
By that time I had a good idea of his eccentricities, and I
told Everett Sanders, the President's secretary, that I didn't
believe he should be received by Mr. Coolidge. Sanders, how
ever, checked up and found that the caller was a wealthy
man, and he remained on the engagement list. I then went
around to Dick Jervis, head of the White House Secret
Service detail, and told him it would be a good idea to keep
his eyes open.
The gentleman arrived and was taken to the door of the
President's office at the appointed time. Everything was going
fine. But as he stepped forward to shake the President's out
stretched hand the silence was broken by the tinkling tones
of music boxes, a cascade of pleasant but startling little tunes
that seemed simply to emanate from the person of the visitor.
Mr. Coolidge stepped back quickly behind his desk, aghast.
Jervis pounced.
When they got the fellow back in our office still without
shaking hands with the President he began taking little
music boxes out of every pocket of his suit. They were beau
tiful golden boxes, which, he said proudly, cost $400 each.
He lined them up on a desk and played them for the clerks,
pleased with the attention he was getting. He didn't, how
ever, get any attention from the President. Mr. Coolidge was
not amused.
-223-
"Dear Mr. President . . ! 9
Another strange case centered around an old German who
lived in New York. He wrote to the President in German on
many occasions, and there was an intriguing childlike sim
plicity about his letters. I always read the translations care
fully, especially after he began telling us about his domestic
troubles in letters that were like installments of a soap-opera
serial He had found a young girl almost starving on the street
and had taken her home. Apparently he mistook her gratitude
for love, but in any event they were married. Then after a
short time his letters said the girl had started looking around
for youth and fun. Finally she left him. It was a terrible blow
to the old man, and it was clear from later letters that it
preyed on his mind constantly. His business was neglected,
and it failed. He walked the streets. He was hungry. He was
a bum, and he still wrote to the President about it.
One day he appeared at the White House, and since I knew
about his letters, I talked to him through an interpreter. He
said he had been sitting in the park across the street, hungry
and tired and not daring to come to see the President. He
wandered, dazed, into a restaurant and somebody asked him
a question. He didn't understand, but he answered "JcT and
they brought him some ham and eggs and coffee. After eat
ing, he got up enough nerve to come in and tell us that his
wif e was persecuting him and he wanted tibe President to
help him. I told him that the President had given orders that
he was to be looked after. Following the usual routine, he
was sent to St. Elizabeth's, as he was obviously a mental
case by that time. He was pleased and grateful. When I went
there later on other business, he rushed up to shake my hand
-224-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
and thank me for the magnificent accommodations the Presi
dent had given him.
On several occasions persons who had written to the Presi
dent and then followed up their letters with visits to the
White House were so far off balance that they threatened to
act violently, but we usually had police help at hand to
subdue them. There was one Rumanian-bom citizen who
wrote to President Hoover in regard to the handling of our
relations with Rumania. He didn't like the way things were
going, and he made various proposals for improvement, all
of which were so wild that we were very much on the alert
when he finally showed up in person.
I arranged for assistance to be nearby when I talked to
him. He was impatient, and wanted to see Mr. Hoover, but
I explained that the President was so busy that an interview
could not be arranged. I pointed out all the clerks in the office
and said that it was their duty to relieve the President of
some of the burdens of office. Suddenly our visitor's attitude
changed. He said he agreed with me. He shook hands
warmly and departed. The next week he was back.
"I just dropped in to shake hands, 5 * he explained. We
shook hands warmly. He was very jolly. He came in about
once a week for several months and we shook hands. Finally,
after a warm shake, he showed me a passport visaed for
Rumania. He said he was going back there to see what could
be done from that end, and I guess he did, because I never
saw him again.
One other intriguing case lasted for many years. President
Theodore Roosevelt received a letter from an American
-225-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
woman who was married to a European Count, saying that
the United States Ambassador at one of the European capitals
had, because of jealousy, blocked her presentation at court.
She wanted the Ambassador fired. She didn't get any satis
faction, but she kept on writing long letters to the President,
and we formed the opinion that she was suffering from some
delusion. Anyway, nothing was done other than to refer her
letters to the Department of State. Then one day she turned
up at the White House and wanted to talk to the President.
When we heard that she had arrived, we were merely
amused, but when she came into the office we could only
stare at her. She was one of the most beautiful women I have
ever seen, and she was dressed as if she had just stepped
from the pages of a fashion magazine.
One of the President's secretaries took a look at her and
left the lobby at a rapid pace, explaining that he was afraid
that if he talked to her he would end up by giving her the
United States Mint and joining the royalist party. A news
paper reporter who knew the story of her letters refused to
write about her, because he said he would be sure to end
up with an editorial backing her complaint She finally de
parted without seeing the President and without achieving
anything but an office sensation, but we kept on getting
letters from her for years. The Ambassador retired. Mr.
Roosevelt was out of office and finally died. There were wars
and revolutions. But the Countess kept right on writing to the
President, always with the same complaint.
We were frequently reminded that so-called crank cases
could be full of political dynamite. One such case concerned
-226-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
the unbalanced wife of a Congressman. She demanded that
the President prosecute some absurd claim against her hus
band, and finally had to be led, screaming and struggling,
from the office by two policemen. She later publicly charged
that she had been thrown out of the White House, and news
papers all over the country published her story, permitting
the administration's political foes to make capital of the
case.
The White House is always the target of so many cranks
that it is sometimes difficult to know when the President
might be in real danger. Crude bombs made of lead pipe
have been found in the White House mail, but they were
comparatively easy to detect and destroy. Sometimes, how
ever, we were lucky enough to recognize less obvious explo
sive packages.
In the Hoover administration, we received a slim little
box addressed to the President, but with no indication of the
name of the sender. I didn't like the looks of it, and I opened
it backward, finding a fountain pen inside. I still thought it
was peculiar that anyone would send Mr. Hoover a fountain
pen without identifying himself, so I put it to soak in oil.
Later I unscrewed the ink receptacle instead of taking off the
cap of the pen. Inside the rubber ink container was a high
explosive. When I unscrewed the cap, I found the oil-soaked
head of a Fourth of July sparkler and a sprinkling of powder,
so placed that it was intended to cause an explosion when the
cap was unscrewed.
We were always suspicious of packages that did not carry
the sender s name or address, and especially of gifts of candy.
-227-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
We could test most food packages, but candy was destroyed
unless we could be sure of the identity of the sender and
knew that the package had not been tampered with. I always
worried about gifts of liquids, too, and kept only those that
could be tested. That meant I had the sad duty of destroying
a lot of champagne, because even with scientific methods I
have never found a way of testing champagne without open
ing the bottle and therefore ruining the wine.
The number of threatening letters to the Presidents has
had little to do with the personality of the Chief Executive.
In bad times there is likely to be an increase, as during the
last part of Mr. Hoovers administration. Presumably this is
due to worries that cause more and more persons to resort to
extreme measures. One of the common types of threatening
letter, for instance, is from some person who states his own
desperate economic plight and says that unless "something is
done" to solve his personal situation he will commit an act
of violence.
There was a sharp renewal of crank letters after the start
of World War II, largely sent by persons with fanatical views
on international affairs. This trend continued after the death
of F.D.R., and Mr. Truman received threatening letters as a
result of intense feeling over postwar foreign developments.
Nobody could guess which threats were the work of mere
cranks and which might be serious, but as usual no chances
were taken. Fortunately, we were tipped off to a lot of letters
before they were received and the Secret Service was able to
keep watch on the senders or to take further action if
necessary.
-228-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
It is not uncommon for some responsible citizen to advise
the White House that he has learned of a threatening letter
that is being sent to the President, or that he has heard about
a threat to the safety of the Chief Executive. One letter in
the nature of a warning, but perhaps merely the work of a
crank, was forwarded to us by the mayor of a large city. It
said that an attempt would be made on the life of President
Truman at the Army-Navy football game. It is customary at
the game for the President to sit on the Army side of the field
during one half and on the Navy side of the field during the
other half, walking across the gridiron between halves. That
walk, the letter said, would be the last walk ever taken by
Mr. Truman.
The Secret Service could not relate the letter to any previ
ous crank communications, but of course took the mot
elaborate precautions. Men were stationed at frequent and
strategic spots in the crowd and on the field- Mr. Truman
crossed the gridiron between halves with a smile and a confi
dent step, but a lot of other men close to him didn't breathe
easy until the game was over.
On another occasion, in the summer of 1947 I was sum
moned back to Washington from my vacation because contro
versy over important issues, including the Palestine question,
had greatly increased the volume of mail to the President. I
was rather surprised that the volume should be more than
could be handled routinely by the office but when I got back
I found that not all the difficulty was due to volume. Some of
the letters received had obviously been intended to loll.
There had been a flurry in England in June of that summer
-229-
"Dear Mr. President . . /'
because eight or more government officials and political
personages tad received terrorist letters in which explosives
were cleverly concealed. Among those who got such letters
were Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin, Colonial Secretary
Arthur Creech Jones, President of the Board of Trade Sir
Stafford Cripps, and former Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden.
Cripps's secretary noticed that the letter he received was hot
(police said later it was apparently about ready to explode)
and he stuck it in water. Eden carried his letter unopened
in his briefcase for twenty-four hours before a secretary,
tipped off by police, found it There were two envelopes, the
outer one about eight by six inches and cream-colored. The
innner envelope was marked "Private and Confidential/*
presumably in an effort to see that it was opened by the man
to whom it was addressed. Inside the second envelope was
powdered gelignite, a pencil battery, and a detonator ar
ranged to explode when the envelope was opened. Police
exploded one experimentally and said that it was powerful
enough to kill a man. The so-called Stern gang of Palestine
terrorists later claimed responsibility for having sent the
letters from its "branch in Europe," The letters were post
marked from Italy.
The same kind of terrorist letters had been found in the
White House mail, and as a result the staff had been handling
all letters with great care, thus slowing up the routine. So far
as I know none of those received in this country resulted in
an explosion, which may have been due to the excellent sys
tem introduced for handling the White House mail during
the war.
-230-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
This system makes full use of all modern scientific methods.
When it was installed after consultation with many experts,
the Secret Service turned over to me a fluoroscope and an
x-ray machine, and arranged for clerks in the receiving room
to be trained in the technique of handling explosives. As has
been said, all food packages, unless their origin was favorably
known and there was no possibility of tampering, were
ordered sent to the Food and Drug Administration labora
tory, where scientific tests were conducted before any pack
age was taken to the White House kitchen. Various tests
were made, but in most cases the laboratory would try out
the food on animals and send back a report such as the follow
ing, dated August 20, 1947:
"Reference is made to your letter of August 18 submitting
for examination approximately one half bushel of peaches.
Two peaches were fed to two monkeys with no ill effects.
Inspection of the fruit with a hand lens revealed no evidence
of tampering. The remaining peaches were delivered to your
messenger today/*
Even the food that is purchased daily for the White House
was placed under special supervision. Secret Service men
pick up all groceries that are ordered, and they watch the
butcher while the meat is being cut. They then carry the food
purchases to a special truck, lock it in, and deliver it directly
to the kitchen.
The general run of packages received in the mail includes a
large number of queer ones, most of which are turned over
to the Secret Service for possible inquiry. In running through
my records, I find notes like these:
-231-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
Received Nov. 20, 1944: small package addressed to the Presi
dent containing old labels from tin cans, old letters, and post
cards. The Secret Service and Office of Protective Research have
a file on the sender.
June 23, 1947: A large letter, addressed to the President, was
received. It contained a smoking pipe, three boxes of safety
matches, a bunch of feathers, and three stones.
Nov. 29, 1946: Two recordings received from New Orleans.
The recordings give an incoherent speech pertaining to Moses,
Representative Sol Bloom, birds, etc.
Sept. 10, 1943: Received a parcel containing the works of five
alarm clocks and several pieces of metal from Meridian, Miss."
Oct 7, 1947: Received a package containing a $10 bill. Writer
states that she heard Lincoln's letter read and thought perhaps it
was a hint that the President needed money.
All packages that come in the White House mail are
examined under the fluoroscope, which shows up any dense
material, particularly metal. If we do not know in advance
what the package contains, any parcel containing metal,
especially clockworks, is put under the x-ray. This may show
sufficient detail to prove that it is harmless. But if after
examination by the bomb detection experts it is found to be
dangerous, the package is turned over to the Secret Service
and placed in a specially built bomb trailer.
The trailer looks like a huge urn, and is constructed of
twisted wire cables and mounted on two wheels. The teavy
cables never have been tried with an atomic bomb, but there
is no question that they are strong enough to withstand a very
powerful explosion. The trailer is then attached to an
armored car, an extremely heavy vehicle built of steel and
with portholes for machine guns. The bomb or suspected
-232-
"Dear Mr. President . . "
bomb is then talcen to a special testing ground, where final
disposition is made by the Secret Service experts. The details
of bomb disposition are the business of the Secret Service,
and I would not want to discuss their methods in any way
that might interefere with their operations. The disposition,
however, is quite definite and permanent
The routine handling of crank letters is also highly devel
oped now, and the Secret Service is likely to become ac
quainted with the writers in a hurry. When such a letter is
found by one of the staff that reads the White House mail, it
immediately goes into a special category, which includes
any letter that is threatening or obscene, or suggests that the
writer is mentally unbalanced.
The reader marks it for the Secret Service and puts his own
initials on it. It is then stamped both the envelope and the
stationery in the dating machine, and placed in a large
cellophane envelope without folding.
These letters go to the Office of Protective Research, which
is a branch of the regular Secret Service under the Treasury
Department and has its offices in the east wing of the White
House executive office. There each letter is photographed,
processed, analyzed, and indexed. This means that the letter
is checked for fingerprints (other than those of the staff
reader, which are on file), the handwriting is studied, and a
record is made of all the characteristics of the letter.
About half of such letters are anonymous, hut in any event
the characteristics of each are checked against an elaborate
file to see whether it is a first letter or a repeater* If it is a
first letter and if it is only mildly annoying, it is unlikely that
-233-
"Dear Mr. President . . .**
any action will be taken. The letter is merely filed for future
reference. But if it is a repeater or a particularly threatening
letter, a photostat probably will be sent to a field agent in
the community from which it is postmarked. If the writer has
signed his name, the Secret Service usually contacts him or
his relatives and secures a promise (often broken) not to
write again.
But if the writer is anonymous, the Secret Service usually
can chase him down, especially if he is a repeater. One man
who had lost his job in a paper mill and wrote threatening
letters to Mr. Hoover was trailed on an automobile trip from
Cleveland to the West coast and back through the Northern
states to Chicago, dropping a trail of letters all the way. He
managed to keep one jump ahead of the agents until he got
to Chicago, where the trail seemed to end. The Secret Service
didn't stop, however. They checked every paper mill in tie
area, found a man who seemed to meet their description,
trapped him into writing a note the handwriting of which
matched that of the threatening letters, and arrested
him.
Perhaps three or four letters a week are received at the
White House from persons who either directly threaten the
President or have heard dangerous talk against him or who
say they are in such desperate straits that unless the President
helps them they will ME themselves. In such instances, tele
grams are sent at once to the nearest Secret Service field
agent, giving him full information, or referring to previous
letters if the writer is already on file and therefore well known
to the field agent The agent then moves in with the aid of
-234-
"Dear Mr. President . . /*
postal inspectors, local authorities, and whatever other
agencies are available.
Of course sometimes the Secret Service fails to locate an
anonymous correspondent. One woman in Santa Monica, Cal
ifornia, wrote a number of letters to President Truman. They
were literate and neatly written letters, but they threatened
Mr. Truman with various unpleasant fates. The woman
seemed likely to be harmless, but she was a persistent soul,
and the Secret Service hunted her in vain for months. Never
did find her. Or at least they hadn't found her up to the
summer of 1948, when I decided that fifty-one years was
enough time for one man to devote to opening the President's
mail. There'd been quite a few times between 1897 and 1948
when I was a bit fearful that somebody would retire me
involuntarily, but in the end I made it under my own power.
I had been planning for some time to retire and to live in
California, but I found it difficult to break away from the
scenes that had been so familiar for so many years and from the
many person who were such loyal friends and coworkers. The
evolution of the White House mail-room staff had been slow,
and had proceeded partly by trial and error, but by the time
of World War II it was an excellent and efficient group, and
gradually I found myself in a strictly supervisory position.
The atmosphere inside our office was pleasant and the work
went along smoothly, with ten skiled clerks from the city post
office and twelve employees who read the mail and performed
other duties.
On the fiftieth anniversary of my service in the White
House I was surprised by the staff, who arranged a party for
-235-
"Dear Mr. President . . ?*
me in the office. In the morning President Truman had sent
for me and reminded me that the date was March 26, 1947,
and that I had become the first person on the White House
rolls to complete fifty years of continuous service. I knew it
before the President told me, but it was pleasant to hear him
say it and to have him call in the photographers when he
presented me with a photograph inscribed: "Kindest regards
and congratulations on his fiftieth year of efficient service to
Ira Smith from Harry Truman." I didn't know, however,,
what was waiting for me back at the office. When I returned
there, I found an assembly of secretaries, officials, workers,
and friends, and we all had a very merry time.
When I officially requested retirement later early in 1948
I said that I intended to live in California, and we planned
to leave Washington for good in the summer of that year.
When this became known, there were lots of friends who
wanted to give farewell parties for us, and for a while I doubt
that the Government got its money's worth out of me at the
office, because I was always gadding about.
Several days before my departure from the office for good,
I noticed there was considerable secretive scurrying-around
on the part of the staff, and sure enough on Saturday there
was a really wonderful party. One of our messengers., calling
himself Piccolo Pete, had organized an orchestra that pro
vided the music, and about two hundred old and new friends
came into the offices, which had been gaily decorated for the
occasion.
There was a buffet luncheon and a bit of ceremonies, over
which Bill Hassett, one of the President's secretaries, presided
-236-
"Dear Mr. President . . ! 9
with great charm. In behalf of the office personnel, he pre
sented me with numerous gifts, including a traveling bag and
a deep-sea fishing outfit. There also was a book in which each
member of the White House staff had written and to which
the President added a few words. I think everybody attended
the party except the President, who was down on Chesapeake
Bay for the week end, but he sent me a letter which said:
Dear Mr. Smith,
A man who has served his government faithfully and well
through more than fifty-one years has indeed earned honorable
retirement. I cannot allow you to leave our White House staff
without this word of appreciation for the efficient manner in
which you have discharged the exacting duties which have fallen
to you as Chief of Mails.
We have all benefitted from your expert handling of the dis
tribution of the enormous volume of mail which is the daily quota
at the White House. May I express my particular thanks for the
uncanny way in which you have been able to segregate my per
sonal and family letters from the great mass of correspondence
which has gone through your hands day after day.
Hope you enjoy life to the fullest where the fishing is good.
Very sincerely yours,
Harry Truman
I thought that was pretty nice of Mr. Truman, especially
that part about the fishing. I think that sometimes a man has
to live in the White House for a while to realize how impor
tant fishing is to the enjoyment of life to the fullest
I was pleased, too, when Mrs. Ethel Haberkorn, who had
joined our staff in 1933 and later became my assistant, took
over as Chief of Mails upon my departure. I knew that she
had ability and initiative and would do a good job. I worked
-237-
"Dear Mr. President . . ."
up until noon of my last day, but there were newspaper and
radio and television people all over the office and I guess I
didn't really get much done before we got into our automo
bile and headed for California.
It gave me a nice, warm feeling, leaving the White House
that way instead of having it suggested that it was time to go,
which, when you come to think of it, is the thing that any
President normally has to face sooner or later. It was espe
cially pleasant to receive Mr. Truman^s congratulations and to
be the guest of honor at the farewell parties, and to be re
minded that I'd witnessed from the White House about one-
third of our country's entire history.
I hadn't seen much of Southern California since I was a
boy and lived on the ranch in the mountains near Santa
Ynez, but I'm getting another look at it now. There are thir
teen lemons on the little tree I planted in the yard behind
my house at Santa Barbara and next year the oranges should
be large enough to eat.
There is only one rule that is enforced at our house these
days. My wife has to open all the mail.
-238-
Ira Smith's White House career began with a
telegram that interrupted him in the middle of a
poker game at home in Ohio. It ended 51 years
later with a personal letter of appreciation from
Harry Truman. The years between were spent at
the strangest job in America, handling the amaz
ing letters and gifts that Americans send their
President . . . letters about wives who have strayed
and crops that have failed; fountain pens filled
with nitroglycerine; bedspreads and live hogs;
10-gallon bottles of beer and threats of assassi
nation. His revealing story is not only about the
Presidents he knew and served, but about the
American people themselves . . . the outspoken,
unknown, but mighty men and women who are
the American public, and who write to criticize,
praise, cuss out, or just to pass the time of day
chatting with their distinguished servant in the
1 02 994
CD <
3
TVNews
OpenLibrary